


Maintenance

by TaxicabKanefessions



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2018-12-21 18:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaxicabKanefessions/pseuds/TaxicabKanefessions
Summary: Prosthetics require regular care that needs to be honed over many years. Especially true if you've got Discworld's erratic magic shoved into your head. Slow-burn fic exploring Teatime's life from admission from the Guild to (final) death.Inserted Chapter: #5, 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on additions:
> 
> This story is a chronological slow burn which covers a rather long, and incredibly eventful, period of Ankh-Morpork history. And that means that on occasion I find bits of lore that really need to be referenced for a variety of reasons. As of this time, this includes:  
> -New Ch. 5: The attack on Ankh-Morpork in Sourcery  
> -New Chapter 12, upcoming chapter 13 & major edits to 14: A canonical blurb about his first confirmed, rather than speculative, kills
> 
> I'll update this list if there are any other insertions or major revisions, though I'm hoping this is about it.
> 
> Enjoy!

When he was led into the head office, the boy was still wet from the bath he'd been given. He quickly took the biggest armchair he could find and, somehow, seemed to become even smaller as he kicked his heels against the leather and rubbed at his eye.

It was a tragedy, to be sure.

They were a young couple with an exceptional knack for creating weaponry which was lightweight, but strong and reliable. It was of such high quality that their stock had become a standard for any guild member who could afford them. Knives so good that they didn't even need to be marked, and often weren't as Assassins loved to have something that was wordlessly known.

It was soon discovered that they had been young parents, as well, who'd left behind a child found splattered and caked in blood. It was quickly agreed that he should be granted a scholarship, in honor of such exceptional weaponry... and in memoriam of people who they were sure were lovely. They'd come to this conclusion before anyone with the power to decide had even seen the child. Many didn't even know the surname of the parents as, up until that point, they'd mostly been known by their shop if they were named at all.

Now, with him in the office, several looks was exchanged.

He couldn't have been older than five, less than half the age of the youngest students the guild normally took in. And he was increasingly looking the part as his hair dried and framed a cherubically round face with golden curls. Picture of childhood innocence, really, which made it such a shame that the whole effect was ruined by one eye that had far too small a pupil, and another that was heavily bruised from its recent replacement with what seemed to be a glass marble.

The group of hardened assassins shifted uncomfortably as the boy looked at them with curious expectancy. 

"I'm sorry about your parents," Dr Cruces finally said.

"It was an accident," the boy replied. His voice was sweet and soft, but the tone seemed a bit too jovial considering the circumstances. But, then, few of them had much experience with young children so that might just have been how a five year old was.

"Yes, tragic one... Did it cause your eye...?"

"It was an accident," He repeated, more insistently. 

"Ah... well, also tragic." Cruces figured he'd ask again later when the trauma had faded and this strange feeling wasn't so strong. For now, he just walked across the room. "Well, you don't need to worry. We've agreed to take you in." He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You'll receive a world class education. Your parents would be honored I'm sure."

The boy smiled in an awkward way that looked like it was trying its best to be quite genuine. It was hard to tell which eye was more responsible for making the whole effect worse. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will, Mr..." He took a quick look at the stamped application. "Jonathan."

The boy gave another smile Cruces certainly hoped that he would grow into, and hopped down from the chair. He took the waiting hand of the matron and, with another rub of his new part, was quickly led off.

The assassins exchanged a look with one another that said they were nowhere near as certain of their decision, but had to acknowledge that it had already been made. If nothing else, there was a sense of gentlemanly duty to taking the child of such valuable partners as the... Teatime's? Was that honestly the surname, or had someone been distracted by the kettle?

They only thing they definitely all agreed on was that a doctor should probably take a look at his eye (it was up for debate which one was more urgent), and that they felt the immediate need to shower before the charity-granting ceremony.


	2. Chapter 2

Jonathan's age made the charity uniform, with its white tunic and yellow duck pants, look proper. It also gave him the naivete to not understand why that might be unusual in the first place. It quickly became apparent, as well, that he either didn't know or care to provide any answers about that night that didn't amount to 'it was an accident'. After a few days, everyone stopped asking and the boy became another fixture in the guild.

Too young for even basic classes, he was allowed to freely explore the grounds. Worst case scenario, they figured, he'd learn the sort of valuable lesson an Assassin needed (or prevent an incapable one from needing to be trained at all). Best case, perhaps the extra practice would let him become legendary enough to get into the museum. The only real rules he'd been given were not to get underfoot or leave Guild property unaccompanied. The first rule he followed incredibly well, as he seemed supernaturally adept at darting out of the way. The second rule was also listened to, technically. Hide Park was neutral territory, after all, and belonged to everyone including the Assassins Guild. It wasn't his fault there was a lot of space in between the two.

Within a couple weeks, there were only a few times he could truly be accounted for. He showed up for every meal, he was around for bed check, and for his daily appointments with a nurse to have his eye tended to. Though, thanks to the adults he had to look up to, he was always fashionably late.

Seeing as he was her last appointment of the day, the nurse wished he hadn't learned so fast. "You're late, Mr Jonathan," she said, firmly, without looking up from her paperwork.

"Yes, ma'am," he smiled, happy to be praised. He lingered by the door.

"Don't waste time, wash your hands and sit."

He obeyed, after a reluctant pause.

The nurse only turned around, and slipped on gloves, after he was in his designated chair. She looked him over, and noted a few brand new bruises and scrapped knuckles. Somewhere, she was sure, at least one bigger child was nursing something much worse. "Been to the park, then?"

He gripped the lip of the chair tightly. "I didn't do anything."

As far as Jonathan was concerned, he wasn't lying. Certainly he'd done something, and he knew exactly what it was. But he couldn't see any reason it would be something that would necessitate name calling, or the others fighting back so hard when he defended himself, so he didn't do anything to be asked about.

"Well, what didn't they understand, then?" She used one hand to hold his eye open as the other began to carefully pry the glass eye out.

He winced and gripped the seat even harder. "I was just looking at it..."

"At what?"

Jonathan fidgeted, for a moment the discomfort in his eye forgotten. "... Doll. She wasn't even holding it!"

"Did she get it back?"

"Yes." That it had gotten broken quite terribly during the name calling and defending himself was beside the point.

The eye finally popped out which drew a gasp. The nurse placed it in a cleansing solution, then pulled over her basin.

"Does it still spark?" she asked as she dipped a washcloth in the warm water and gently wiped the now-empty eye.

"Yes, ma'am." Jonathan hummed gratefully and leaned into the pressure.

A prosthetic became uncomfortable after awhile, especially something inserted like this ball was. That he couldn't take care of it on his own was most of the nurse's guarantee that he'd always come. The other part was that, thanks to his age and natural talent for repelling others, this tended to be his only real conversation for the day. She tried not to bring that part up.

"Does it still sting?" She asked. With him cleaned off and examined, she turned to rinse the glass.

"Sometimes," he said as he rubbed the now hollow eyelid. "And it sparks when I get mad."

It had only been a few seconds without the eye, but his pupil had already grown three times to something approaching normal. His tone, slowly and reluctantly, began to match his words again. A note was scribbled down before she began to clean the eye off.

"Any other time?"

"Sparks more when I'm thinking a lot."

"And that hurts?"

"No, it sparks." He went over to the counter, and stood on his toes to watch her clean. He smiled as the colors of the glass swirled about, seemingly enjoying the attention. "I think it just wants to think, too."

"Maybe it is," she agreed. "Have you let it help?"

"Sometimes. It's really smart."

"Sounds like a good friend you've made, then."

A wide smile spread over his face. "You think?"

"It sounds like."

He bounced on his heels, excited at the prospect, as she dried the eye off. "Can I get it back?"

"Neither of you sleep when you're together overnight," she said, firmly, and handed him his patch.

"I might..."

"You can get it back when you get up. Now off to bed."

One of the first lessons Jonathan had learned at the guild was that he had a lot more to fear from getting a staffer angry than one of the Assassins, as the staff were the only ones who seemed to care what he was doing. The head butler could be terrifying, for sure, but he was nothing compared to what he was sure the nurse was capable of.

The look in her eye told him to swallow any arguments. "Yes, Ma'am."

There were a few more notes about the eye, and it was put away for the night. The glass rolled unhappily in its jar, but helplessly stayed put.

Jonathan's walk back was stiff and quick. His glass eye wasn't popular, he'd found out, but the empty socket was even less so. The patch was slightly better, it seemed, but not enough. With most of the complaintants over twice his size, he really wasn't in the position to fight back. He just took notes of faces and ducked into his room.

The standard scholarship dorm was inornate, but fully furnished, and fitted for two people. When he was old enough to study they'd get him a roommate, they insisted, but for now he was by himself. Which was plenty fine. He felt quite naked without his eye, even if his head was a lot clearer, and it was better to be alone.

Once the door was shut and locked, Jonathan changed into his pajamas and dug through the toys littered on the empty bed. Beneath the teddy bear and blocks was a dagger he'd swiped from his parents' shop before the rest of the guild helped themselves (to honor their legacy like gentlemen, of course). He grinned, and brought the blade with him to curl up in bed. The faster he got to sleep, the sooner he'd have his eye back.

Without the sparking in his head, and well-protected, he fell asleep quickly and deeply.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry if anyone caught this when it was first posted. On a re-read I decided it needed to conclude much differently to set up future events-

"Okay... pens, notebook, knife..."

He hesitated. They hadn't exactly said weapons were required. They also hadn't exactly say they weren't. Looking unprepared would be downright awful.

But, then again, one of the treats of new school years was how the first years howled and whined when their weapons were confiscated. The other was when the second and third years got them back, and complained that they swore they'd brought a better knife than this, or that these were the wrong poisons, weren't they?

It was a particular bit of pride that nobody had found out that he still had the knife he'd brought onto property. Even the risk of a scolding for coming to class under stocked wasn't worth losing that. He put it back in its hiding spot.

He straightened himself one last time in the mirror, grinned, and rushed off.

It hadn't taken long before Jonathan had become bored from the lack of structure. Various tutors taught him reading, writing, and math, but stopped when he was no longer challenged by the basic lessons that could be done in relatively spare time. He then began to follow classes as closely as he was able. Considering neither tutors nor students tended to want him there, and could be quite aggressive about that, that meant a lot of stealth. He mostly studied and listened from the safety of windows, bushes, and with an ear pressed to doors. The library was easy enough to sneak into, thankfully, and he read every book he could reach to varying degrees of understanding.

By 8, he'd done about all he could do on his own.

By 9, he'd petitioned to be allowed to take classes. It was more a series of pleading and promising he wouldn't be a nuisance, but regardless he'd gotten what he wanted. He was officially a student, if a probationary one. A decade and beyond down the line, it would annoy him that he missed being the youngest to start at the guild by a full 6 months.

His first act as a student was to show up to class fifteen minutes early and ready himself in the middle of the front row.

It took twenty minutes for the professor to finally stroll in. Jonathan had taken to rocking himself back and forth in a desperate attempt to look refined and mature, which above all meant staying in his chair. When he heard the door shut, he turned and gave a huge and very relieved smile.

"Good morning!"

Mr Linbury-Court gave him a withering look. "Mister Jonathan," he said, each syllable pronounced distinctly as he looked down his nose at him. "I know for a fact we've told you about staying out of classrooms during sessions."

"I'm supposed to be here, sir," He insisted. "I'm a student, now!" He beamed and held up his notebook, labeled 'history of assassination' as neatly as he'd been able, as proof.

Mr Linbury-Court eyed him, looked over his roll sheet, frowned more deeply when he found the name. Absolutely nobody had asked him if he wanted to babysit the boy that'd practically become the guild pet over the years. And they certainly hadn't asked if he wanted to be the first one to do it.

"It seems so," he said, wryly. "Well, then, Mr Teatime..."

"Teh-ah-tim-eh," Jonathan corrected. His smile hadn't wavered.

"Hm, yes. Well, you will behave like a proper student if you're going to be in my class."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't know why you were forced into this but..."

"Oh, no, sir!" Jonathan exclaimed, horrified. "I asked them to let me be here! I want to learn and do a good job."

The professor was still not even a bit convinced that this wasn't some sort of punishment for one or both of them. But he supposed that, if a hyperactive and bizarrely resourceful child had to start someplace, it was best in a classroom without its walls lined with weaponry. "Very well. Make sure you live up to that."

Jonathan beamed, and fixed himself back into the posture he assumed a good student should have.

"That begins with not showing up so early. It's hardly dignified to be... over-eager."

"Oh... yes, sir. I'll remember that." He hastily scribbled that down while the professor began to write on the board.

It was another ten minutes before the first year students began to file in. They were shocked someone was there already, as being the first to arrive wasn't fashionable, and then again when they started to recognize him.

The whispers of "isn't that the weird kid?" and "I haven't seen him up close before, what's with his eyes?" started. Jonathan was determined not to ruin his presentation, and didn't budge. The eye sparked furiously at his refusal to react, and when his face twitched in response it added "what, is he crazy?" to the discussion.

After what felt like an eternity, the Mr Linbury-Court announced, "That's enough of that. Let's get started, shall we?"

*****

Jonathan headed into the nurse's office, and froze when he saw a stranger in her chair. "Who are you...?"

The new nurse looked up and jumped a bit when she saw him. It took a few moments for her to catch her breath and smile, apologetically. "Oh, you must be Jonathan!"

"Yes, ma'am... where is...?"

"She retired, dear."

It was more that she would no longer come into work for reasons that were on a need-to-know basis. That tended to be the case for anyone who worked with Assassins.

"Oh," he said, and looked down at the floor as he tried to sort this out.

She checked her schedule. "It looks like you don't need a check for another week. Is your eye bothering you?"

"No, ma'am. Goodnight." He left before she could say anything else.

He'd been being trained to do his own eye care for quite some time. It'd started with handling the wash cloth, and had progressed to where he only needed a check every few weeks. So he really didn't need a nurse at all. But she was one of the few who would actually talk with him. She didn't react when she met his eyes, and sometimes even let him sit in the office and watch her do paperwork without a single comment about how he was creepy for staring.

He headed back to his dorm, and pointedly ignored how upset the older boys were when he removed and cleaned his eye in the communal bathroom. They were the reason he'd been sparked all day, so they could just sit and watch. This would cost him dearly later, he knew, so he also hurried back to his room and shut the door behind him.

It was only after he was locked and barricaded in that he slumped down and rubbed at his eyes. He had sniffle, a second one, and that was all he could do. If he was going to graduate, which he was absolutely going to do, he didn't have time for that.

She'd served her purpose while he was a child, but now he was a student. A grown up, on his way towards becoming an Assassin who couldn't be bogged down with being sad over an ally who'd outstayed their usefulness.

Jonathan settled into his desk instead. He had dance and deportment tomorrow morning, and modern languages the afternoon after that. If he was going to prove that he belonged there, he had to study.

Or, rather, try to. The eye seemed to be particularly active tonight, and rolled angrily within its glass. Every note he took was met with loud clinking.

"Come on, now. I have to work."

Clink. Clink.

"I'm serious!"

_Clink._

"You're going to break yourself if you keep doing that!"

**Clink.**

Jonathan pouted for a moment, then thought again. "Did you want to study, too?"

Clink.

He flashed another look at the door and wetted his lips. The nurse had told him that he needed plenty of rest without his eye in, and certainly never to sleep with it. But it wouldn't matter much if he was just studying a little late, right? Besides, it wasn't like she was there to tell him no.

He moved quickly as he could to the mirror and slipped the eye back into place. He was met with an almost purring spark that caused him to giggle.

"You have to come out before I go to bed, though, okay?"

The shades of gray swirled around irritably.

"I have to get a good sleep, and so do you. Now come on, let's read."

The colors regulated as he settled back into the desk. The words flowed, easier and faster than before, and his notes came out at a lightning pace. The world he was going to enter was fascinating, even the introductory dryness, and the two of them soaked it in.

Jonathan's head jolted up when the midnight bells rang. "It's already midnight? I need to get to sleep...!" His face screwed at sparks of protest. "We'll read more tomorrow. I'm going to bed and so are you... Stop it!"

He stomped over to the mirror, and more roughly than he probably should have popped it back out. "You need to sleep, too.."

He hesitated, and debated if it was worth risking reprisal from heading to the bathroom to rinse it again tonight. His good eye drifted from the chair blocking the door to the half-empty water glass on his desk.

The colors swirled angrily.

"They're still too big," he insisted firmly.

It tried to roll out of his hand.

"I can't do it! I will someday, but right now just deal with this." He dunked the eye in the water glass, used a handkerchief to dry it off, and placed it back in its jar. "Good _night_."

**Clink.**

He stuck his tongue out, and they both headed to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

He really did try to be good.

Jonathan did his absolute best to never break rules, actually, and when he found out he had he always felt terrible. Because of that, he spent an awful lot of time thinking about the rules. In particular, he always wanted to know what they were actually saying, and only once it was settled would he act accordingly. Some would say this more often than not was bending the rules to fit what he'd already wanted to do. Some would say he would twist the rules into knots and purposefully misinterpret them so badly that the rules became meaningless. But, he would point out, that certainly didn't mean he had broken them. That was bad, and he was so careful not to be bad.

And yet, once again, he found himself at the dean's office.

He was well past the point of nervous leg swinging, mostly because his legs had become much too long. He wasn't above a deep slouch or a deeper pout, and a heavy sigh that earned him a scolding from the secretary. This was part of his punishment, and he was to serve it silently. Being a rule of the office, he obeyed.

*****

By the time they'd decided he was physically developed enough to begin trade classes, he'd been living at the Guild for 6 years. That in itself was quite the accomplishment. Most boys left the guild within 2 or 3 years through whatever means, and by year 6 the student body was at most a tenth of what it'd been on orientation day. He had made it through this entire period, perhaps a little more erratic, but physically seemed no worse for wear.

There always seemed to be a want for hindsight when it came to Jonathan Teatime. Maybe it was the ready smile, the golden curls, over-abundant manners spoken in a gentle sing-song, but nobody ever seemed to think about what a bad idea he might be until something had already happened.

This particular case was an 11 year old who was simultaneously short and lanky, and in remarkable physical condition. He moved like a cat, with steps that were light and sure despite impressive speed. Years of spying on classes and practicing what he'd seen in private had given him an exceptional understanding of blades, in particular his dagger control. Many of the Masters who'd allowed their dagger skills to go rusty while they focused on other tools found it uncomfortably close to their own abilities.

Jonathan had been put up against what could only really be described as a child. His peers were still doughy and sheltered, with awkward grips on their weapons and the only the vaguest idea of what they were supposed to do with them. In their few weeks on campus they had collectively decided that they didn't like Jonathan for a multitude of reasons, justified or otherwise, and were as unsubtle about it as 11 year old boys were about basically everything else.

All told, they probably should have gathered that the only reason his first sparring partner would be left breathing was because first years were only armed with wooden weapons.

The counsel had been assembled to discuss his future.

They'd had problems like this in the past. Every so often you got a student who was too talented, too clever, too enthusiastic, or maybe a bit madder than would be hoped for. It was rare you had them all rolled up in one person, in particular one who seemed to have a great deal of scores to settle.

They weren't about to let him go, of course. A rare talent was something that should be harnessed and refined. Considering that talent was for Assassination, an angry young man left without ties or training could easily become ridiculously dangerous. Plus there was a little matter of the fact that he'd literally been raised within the guild. There was some personal responsibility in seeing that he lived long enough to have a chance at graduation at least.

The only thing certain was that, once again, he'd be rooming alone.

*****

Energy was not infinite, they were taught, and what you spent now was less you had for later when you potentially truly needed it. Many an Assassin through history had died gruesomely because they didn't have enough left for that final push to safety. Therefore, the absolute worst way you could waste what you had was with idle fidgeting.

The issue was far more about professionalism, but the tutors never missed an opportunity to remind students of their mortality.

Jonathan tried to heed the lesson, but he'd been in his chair nearly an hour at that point with no end in sight.

The biggest crime of it all was that he'd done what he'd been asked. More than once. The tutor had told them to spar their opponent to the ground. His classmate had sneered and said "Come at me, _Tea_ time!"

And he had.

Nobody had said he had to stop once his opponent was down.

The other boy had a good stone and a half on him anyway, and with that pack he always travelled in had caused Jonathan plenty of pain. He probably hadn't even felt most of it, he'd just played up his screaming. Then he played up his crying when Jonathan was pulled off him and ordered straight to the dean.

At the least, he'd figured, he should have earned an 'A' for technique.

His eye sparked, and he was already turned and ready when the door clicked open.

"Mr Teatime."

"Teh-ah-"

"Come in, son," the Assassin said, firmly.

Jonathan hopped off his chair and trotted after him. He stood where he was told, on one end of a long table. The other was surrounded by motionless men, many of them very old, clad in black to blend into the shadows of the room. They would have, to most people. He could see each one clearly, including every tiny bulge that indicated a hidden weapon.

He wondered if they could see his, but the white tunic was quite baggy.

There was a single woman in the room, and she somehow seemed even less pleased to see him. She hadn't bothered to hide any of her weapons, and kept a hand on the hilt of the sword at her side. Based on the buzz from his eye, they both had to respect her forwardness.

"Mr Teatime."

He dug his nails into his palm. A correction was probably not in his best interest right then.

"It appears you're a bit... advanced for the introductory Edged Weapons course," Dr Cruces said, his voice soft and deliberate. "Who trained you, exactly?"

"Nobody directly, sir," he answered. "I just watched the other students."

"That's all?"

"Yes, sir." He added, quickly, "I did ask, politely. None of the tutors would take me on."

"I see... Well, meet Madame les Deux-Epées. She's our new Mistress at Arms." He nodded to the woman. "She will test to see where we can place you."

Jonathan gave her a wide smile. "I look forward to it."

She raised an eyebrow and gave him a once over. "We'll see."

*****

The promise of a beat down always drew an audience. When it advertised who was about to be beaten down by whom, every single hiding spot became occupied. The tutors noted the sheer number of eyes with irritable discomfort.

The eye had indicated they were there, but Jonathan didn't pay attention. He demanded it analyze his opponent, and eventually it complied. The way her clothing lay, it said, indicated that she had extensive armor on under her coat. There weren't any open places it could tell, so he'd have to aim for her jugular that just barely peeked over the high collar. If he stood any chance he'd have to move quickly.

Madame les Deux-Epées looked him over again, then motioned to a blade selection. "Choose your weapon."

"Yes, Ma'am." He carefully considered each option, then eventually took a short sword which was plenty long for him.

"Are you ready?"

He slid into position. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Start."

With well-practiced grip and speed, he launched himself at her. Her jugular pulsed like a beacon, bright red in a world that'd gone gray. He made several jabs for it, but his technique nowhere near as finessed. In his defense, he would insist, he'd rarely been able to get his hands on a sword.

She dodged these lunges with dancing steps for what felt like an eternity, but was really less than a minute. When she decided she'd seen enough, she sent his sword flying off with a flick of her wrist. The mistress at arms swung down to finish the match with a sword to his throat.

Her blade smashed against a dagger.

Madame les Deux-Epées paused and smirked. "Quick one, aren't you?"

Another flick of the wrist, and the dagger went flying as well. She stopped her sword at his throat. "Concede."

Jonathan swallowed, and his chest heaved from adrenaline and exertion. The eye sparked and swirled in protest, but he raised his hands up anyway.

"Good lad." She helped him up. "Put him with the third years."

"Don't you think that's a little _advanced_?" Mr Mericet asked, flatly.

She irritably turned her head. "The next time I need to hide in the shadows while a chemical handles my client for me, I'll ask your opinion." The sword was very pointedly sheathed as he fumed. "Until then, his raw technique is fine but lacks the refinement he'd be taught with the third years. A second year will just have us doing this all over again because another boy is in the nurse with bruised kidneys. I don't have time for that." She looked back at Jonathan. "Two centimeters lower, next time."

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll remember that!"

"Good. Now, if the rest of you don't mind, I have a class to teach and you're on my field."

Jonathan beamed after her, and then back at the other tutors. His smile fell, slightly, when he met eyes with Mr Mericet.

There wasn't much doubt that his worst class was about to get a whole lot harder.

*****

When he made it back to his room, his dagger was laid neatly on his bed. Freshly sharpened and polished, it none the less had a note attached.

_-Not bad._

_If I see this out of your room or Edged Weapons class again, you won't see it until graduation.-_

He grinned, then yelped when he inadvertently tested its edge. Jonathan sucked his finger as he put it back into its hiding spot.

For the first time he made his mind up that he wasn't just going to graduate. If he was that good, really that good, then he was getting a bust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This is my first time with this character, so I'm not sure if I'm capturing him correctly. Any critique would be fantastic.


	5. Chapter 5

"Swales."

"Here."

"Taylor."

"Here."

"Teatime."

"Teh-ah-tim-eh."

Monsieur le Balourd gave Jonathan an incredibly exhausted look.

"Here," Jonathan replied, torn between apology and indignance.

His Head of House checked him off, and continued on down the roster. When all boys were accounted for, he closed his role book without his normal flourish. "Standard lockdown rules apply. I trust I don't need to go over them?" When there was a chorus of equally half-hearted 'no, sir's', he nodded. "Very good."

It happened, periodically, that a true threat would come against the city (Not the Guild in particular because, of course, such a threat would be quickly neutralized). In those cases, students would be confined to the common areas of their respective houses for easier head-counting and protection.

It was just a wizard spat, le Balourd had explained calmly as he could. They always wore themselves out after creating a large anomaly or two, so no need to be concerned. What was going on outside the walls of Mrs. Beddowe's House sounded far worse than a disagreement. Nobody called attention to that. Scholarship boys were too tough to get scared, of course. But, more than that, it wasn't a good idea for people in their social standing to be asking too many questions.

Their head of house planted himself by the front window, and monitored the situation through a slit in the curtain. The boys settled in, segregated best they could be by age group. Jonathan, finally old enough to be in the youngest group for these sorts of things, sat himself on the outskirts of the 11 year olds.

To an immediate response of "Back off, Teatime."

Jonathan pouted. "This distance was okay last time."

"Then you went nuts. Again." The boy sneered. "Back. Off."

He was larger than Jonathan, which honestly wasn't unusual, but he always seemed larger with the two cronies that followed after him. It was enough that Jonathan didn't argue. He just put on his best glower and moved back some.

"Keep going."

Another few inches with a deeper frown.

When the group of boys looked ready to get up and come after him, Jonathan moved again until nobody could have mistaken him for part of any group at all.

The 11-year-olds returned to their conversation much more contentedly.

With no other options, Jonathan curled up and watched the coals bounce in the fireplace with every crash and rumble.

Jonathan had lost track of how many lockdowns he'd had to sit through. There were always a few per year. It never took long for a problem to happen in Ankh-Morpork.

le Balourd, by far the mellowest of the tutors, had always treated procedures like this as tedious routine rather than actual threat. He would sit by the window but rarely glanced out, and then only to see if there was another Assassin coming to release them. He'd joke about. He'd do what he could to manage his highly territorial, and now highly condensed, group of charges. Now...

Someone had thrown around "apocalypse" as they were hurried inside. And, well, maybe. It certainly felt worse to be alone than it had any of those other times.

There was a feeling, as if they were all being pulled, for a moment. Then started Earth-shaking booms, coming towards them in a steady beat like footsteps. The temperature began to drop, slowly at first and then faster, from a mild spring day to middle of winter.

Around chattering teeth, le Balourd ordered one of the oldest boys to start a fire. His eyes never moved from the slit in the curtain, and his hand clutched his knife harder.

The student did as he was told. For the moment, all petty squabbles were forgotten as they moved around the fire. The steps grew closer, and the fire barely managed to bring the room to chilly, they huddled together and waited together.

And it was nice... In the sort of way that made Jonathan sure he'd regret mentioning it. Scholarship boys were also not interested in sentimentality, it was highly discouraged in places boys like that tended to come from. And, if they'd been the unusual sort to have it anyway, they wouldn't be living in Mrs. Beddowe's.

Jonathan bit his lip to keep from grinning, and pressed a bit deeper into the huddle. The boys around him felt quite a bit dirtier all of a sudden, but the closeness of the group prevented them from going anywhere so they let it happen.

It was rather disappointing when the air started to warm up, and the footsteps didn't fade so much as just stopped. For many reasons, such as being anticlimactic.

There was a long period where nobody felt like they should be worried anymore. That tends to be the most dangerous time, so the huddle stayed relatively the same. After a while of this, Monsieur le Balourd tugged the curtain a just slightly more. The knife disappeared back into his sleeve, and he picked up the crossbow at his feet. He aimed, carefully, and sat with his finger on the trigger.

The room went silent. Nobody moved. They hardly dared to breathe as le Balourd fixed on his target. And then...

When he sat up and put the crossbow back down, everyone gratefully relaxed. They still didnt move, though, until he'd peeked out the door and muttered a coded message with the person on the other side.

le Balourd turned back to them. His eyes still looked incredibly tired, but at least his trademark wide smile was back. "You're dismissed. Good work, gentlemen."

The huddle disintegrated in an instant as boys scattered either out the door or upstairs to the bedrooms. The ones around Jonathan complaining rather loudly about needing a shower now. But everyone had something to say about not actually wanting to do what they'd just done.

"Be back for bed check," the Head of House called, louder, to make sure everyone heard him. He then turned to Madame les Deux-Epées who, without a house of her own yet, had been assigned as messenger.

They spoke, softly, in Quirmian at a rate purposely too fast for any native Morporkian to keep up with. Jonathan, always up for a challenge, hung in the living room and did his best.

He managed to catch occasional words, more than sentences. There was the word for 'wizard' and 'ice' and... something that seemed to mean 'big' based on body language but it certainly wasn't any one of the words that'd been taught to him. Oh, and an awful lot of swearing. The students of the Guild, especially of the scholarship houses, made it their business to learn as many foreign swears as they could as fast as they could so he definitely caught all of those.

So the whole conversation seemed to boil down to 'those damned wizards ruin everything'.

Jonathan hopped off the couch, and slipped past the two tutors, as their conversation became slower, louder, and more casual.

Magic was much scarier and more powerful than he'd thought, if it could throw of a seasoned and otherwise cheerfully calm Assassin. It was vital, then, that he find some books on the basics.


	6. Chapter 6

The senior students truly wanted their eyes to be hardened, primarily because it seemed they felt they needed to be. None of them had seen anything to justify it yet, so their stares ended up feeling not only confused but rather upset about that.

These awkward looks were all locked on Jonathan as he stood at the bottom of the lecture hall. He looked over each in kind, and his eye buzzed a bit and warned him to be careful. Even the least equipped of them was armed to the teeth. In some cases, quite literally.

At least the only thing in any of their hands (excluding poison rings, which were not technically _in_ their hands) were pencils.

Jonathan placed his violin to his chin. He gave another look over the sheet music before he closed his eyes and began to play.

The toccata today was the midterm, the last section of both his and theirs'. The sheet music on his stand was left blank aside from the occasional measure or two written out to show where he was expected to insert a cue.

Your client is at the buffet table.

A long cord followed by three short, descending notes was incorporated into the piece.

They've gone though the furthest door to the left.

He lingered on the third note of a diatonic scale.

They've taken to the stairs.

Ascending quarter notes with a low stinger at the end.

Client has been cared for, at ease.

A long bit of high vibrato, and then a slide down two octaves.

As he finished the final cord, pencil scratches gave way to polite clapping. Jonathan gave them a deep bow, and then one to the Kompt.

"Wonderful, Jonathan. Wonderful. Enjoy your Hogswatch break."

"Thank you, sir."

He left for the locker area, and felt much more relaxed without that awkward stare on him. He undid the padlock on his cubby, and began to clean the violin to put it away.

*****

Without the ever-present, ever-hungry teen boys, the cafeteria was positively cavernous. Snow fell heavily outside as Jonathan looked over the endless selection of seats, and pointedly dropped his things at the preteen- declared 'cool table' before he headed to the kitchen.

As a staffer or two would only be around every few days, the pantry was well-stocked with enough food for any lingering residents to eat off of. Come the next week that'd include a pork and spiced-apple pie for Hogswatch, but for now he settled for a serving of now ice-cold casserole left on a lower shelf.

He grinned and took his place in the best seat of the entire room. Even if he was only there because nobody was around to stop him, it still felt scandalous and made every bite amazing. He relished in the meal until it'd come up to a far less appetising room temperature.

"Are you ready?" He asked as he took the last gelatinous mouthful.

The colors swirled, and suggested maybe he have seconds instead.

"It's not that bad, come on."

He bussed his tray and set up with his violin at the window that overlooked Ankh-Morpork. He surveyed it with his natural eye for a while, then slowly lifted the instrument into place. He closed his eyes and began to play.

Jonathan hadn't had much choice when it came to music. He was expected to play an instrument as a standard part of Assassination training, in the same way he was expected to be capable of everything from ballroom dancing to carriage driving. The Kompt de Yoyo had taken decided to add him into his class, and as soon as they were introduced, and announced that he was simply made to play the violin. And the violin was perfect for axillary work, which Jonathan was also made for.

It was the eyes, he'd explained tragically. The handsome face and beautiful hair were one thing, but the mismatched eyes made him far too memorable. He'd never be able to sneak into a gala, or slip back off into a crowd.

But a violin was expected to be played in an area with an exceptional view of the room. It could easily be played with eyes closed, or mostly so. And if not, well, nobody cared much about the look of a musician so long as he played well.

It'd also keep his hands off a knife, but that wasn't spelled out.

In spite of him, Jonathan did like it well enough. It was relaxing, and he'd found the empty cafeteria provided some incredible acoustics. But more than that, being forced to play with his eyes closed so often had given him a new appreciation of the massive windows and his own glass eye.

He could still see.

Well, 'see' wasn't the right word. Truth be told, his natural eye had been growing increasingly useless over the years. Considering he only was without his prosthetic from his desk to his bed, now, he'd figured that was all due to his room being a bit too dark. He just felt around until he found his cot, no harm done.

But that first time he'd been forced to keep his eyes shut, he realized the room was no less vivid. If anything, it was even clearer. Not that he was going to tell anybody, since he'd never get out from behind the instrument. He would just practice over break so that he was perfect for next session.

Ankh-Morpork was drab at the best of times, but especially so in winter. The snow seemed to highlight, rather than cover, the regular layer of grime.

But when the eye took over, it was covered in brilliant color. The ice on the rooftops was glittering blue over the bright-red people who moved about inside buildings. The river was... a rather nauseating shade of yellow-green. He'd look at other things instead. He could check rooftops for stability, for example.

He could hear, between the notes, the various Assassins and staff who came up for a meal. They spoke about how well he played and how nice he was around the holidays. Not a single person called him weird for just sitting and watching, and nobody would have thought (or even believed) what he was up to.

That was the real power of the violin.

The eye seemed to sigh, and asked if he was set to do this the whole break.

Jonathan's response was to transition from a waltz to a capriccio.

When he was done playing voyer, it would show him things that were much more fun. But for the holiday, it resigned to analyze the day-to-day minutia of the city below.


	7. Chapter 7

Jonathan had taken an embarrassing amount of time to realize exactly why everyone hated the scholarship uniform. It was one of those points where he was glad he didn't have friends to talk to, since they doubtlessly would have laughed at him. Better just to sulk and blush over it privately. The realization coming when it did, he decided, wasn't all bad though. It certainly didn't feel good that the whole thing was sparked by how relieved he was to put on a coat the color of street runoff. But his blush was masked by the same pinking everyone's exposed skin was under so it wasn't noticable.

Once he got his first payment after graduation, he swore he would get decked out like a nobleman. And that would start with a well-made coat and a solid set of boots. The ones he wore then made it quite difficult to both keep him steady and keep his feet warm and dry.

Their first class of the semester, seemingly out of spite, was set on snowy the rooftops of Morpork. The glow of ice and snow compared to the normally grey city nearly blinded him. But this was perfect, Ms Band insisted, as they all huddled to the center of the roof. If they could learn to move properly in the worst conditions, they could do it any time at all.

"It'll be an easy course," She shouted to be heard over the wind and street noise. She pointed a thin finger to a balcony three rooftops over. "I'll even let you inside a while, since this is your first time."

The class' looks shifted awkwardly between longing and terror as they surveyed everything they'd have to get past to get to their reprieve.

"We're not racing," She emphasized. "I want you to get the feel for this and move at your own pace. You'll start when I sound the horn." With that, she leapt gracefully to the next rooftop. They watched her expertly utilize gutters and chimneys before she landed neatly on the balcony in question.

The class readied themselves as she reached into her coat. As she lifted it in the air horn they jockeyed for position, hesitantly, closer to the edge.

And then it began.

Jonathan launched himself, and made it onto the next rooftop by a decent margin. His next step had to be extra long and wide to avoid the bright-blue ice patch in his way. There was another on the gutter of the next roof, so he aimed to the left.

His foot landed solidly on the thin patch of clear shingling. He might have taken the time to think how lucky he was, but his focus had already shifted to the clear handhold that glowed out to him.

His lungs and legs burned when he dropped, heavily, onto the balcony. He leaned against the wall as he pulled himself together, and only after a long while was he able to open an eye and look for a reaction.

Ms Band still stared between him and her stopwatch, fish mouthed.

"How did you...?" She shook her head to clear it. "Go inside and sit down by the fire."

"Yes, ma'am," he slurred out. Jonathan dragged himself inside and gratefully slid down the wall beside the fireplace.

_How did you like it?_

He could barely keep his eyes open. "What are you talking about?"

_Much better than sitting in the cafeteria all day, wasn't it? Don't reply to that, by the way. They're coming in._

The second student had an incredible time, considering, and he deflated a bit to see that he'd been beaten. But there was an air of respect about it.

Jonathan grinned. This was definitely going to be fun.


	8. Chapter 8

Any time Ms Band said something was easy, students knew they were in for it. Doubly so if she would add that it was easy 'for you'.

That morning it was about scaling brick walls with the mortar that was just slightly further back than normal. An easy handhold, and only two stories, too! How very lucky they were! And, since Jonathan continued to be freakishly quick about her class, he would be fine with an extra story. Logically, the rest of the class should have had to do more if they were so slow. Nobody agreed.

By the next class two hours later, his body positively burned. He collapsed in his chair and his classmates, who evidently still didn't appreciate his helpful suggestion, quickly emptied the ring of desks around him.

_They're very rude._

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He thought, [They always are.]

_Not like we needed them, anyway._

[You can hear me?]

_I'm in your head, aren't I?_

"Eye sockets aren't the same..."

_Close enough. Tutor's coming in._

The short, immaculately made-up man glided to the podium. His nose wrinkled, and face soured, as he looked over the group.

Every Black Syllabus tutor insisted that they taught the most important class. Moreover, every one of them had a reason that the opposite subject (whose tutor they absolutely respected, by the way) was far less important. The melee instructors weren't impressed with the poisoners, who had little respect for the archers, who in turn didn't think highly of the use of booby traps. And every one had more than a bit to say about the fieldwork team who had scandalously suggested that hand-to-hand combat should be added to the roster. A decent Assassin, they insisted, should never be in a position where they needed to resort to something as uncouth as their bare hands.

They, officially, had nothing but respect for the non-Assassin tutors though that generally wasn't expanded on. In particular, here was a lot of it for Mr Moody. And, as always with an instructor who quite possibly had life-and-limb reasons to be listened to, it was easy to tell which students studied under the Black Syllabus. They showed up at the exact point where it would be most dignified, and sat perfectly as possible in their seats.

As much as they could this time, anyway. The 12-year-old lot of them had started into their most awkwardly greasy stage, and those that did have respect for the fact they now had body odor covered it up with gallons of cologne. Having spent all morning climbing only made all of this worse, even with time to shower. Mr Moody had long insisted that Ms Band timed her scaling lessons to make his first Personal Grooming class particularly horrible, but nobody listened.

Based on the wide berth around Mr Jonathan (no... Mr Teatime now), it seemed that there was more than the usual amount of preteen politics with this group. Considering he'd spent his morning dealing with boys horrified at the idea that they needed to shave their newly-grown peach fuzz, he didn't have the time or patience for this.

"Gentlemen," Mr Moody said, firmly. "I'm going to be frank. You're starting my class because your  _stink_  has become offensive. It's embarrassing for the Guild, and shameful for each of you personally."

The group sunk down in their seats. They were suddenly hyper aware of all the (mostly unwanted) changes puberty had brought along with it.

"I'm here to get you presentable again," he said as he pulled down a diagram. "We'll begin with how to properly clean oneself."

* * *

_This is ridiculous._

[I'm trying to listen, hush.]

_He's demanding you use a different soap for every part of your body. How is this not crazy?_

[This is important to learn, be quiet.]

_Been on for ten minutes about how to clean your-_

[The Guild wants me to learn this, so I'm going to.] Jonathan gave a knock to his glass eye with his wrist, in what he hoped any onlooker would confuse for a scratch. [Shut it.]

Mr Moody finally moved onto how to properly wear the school uniform, but the eye had already stopped listening.

It could hear Mr Mericet's lecture from the poisons lab downstairs. Quite an interesting take on blow darts, really, and the importance of picking the correct dosage for them. But Jonathan had shown signs that he would be useless with poisons. He didn't understand the chemistry, and didn't seem interested in much beyond what it'd take to pass the course. After graduation, he'd probably never touch them again. Really, he listened to the Madame les Deux-Epées too much.

Which, speaking of... Her class was in the courtyard. It was much harder to hone in on her thanks to the distance, but she was still audible.

She wasn't (or, at least, didn't appear to be) much older than the students she trained. It made her status as a probationary instructor that much harder, since it depended on their respect. No surprise, then, that a senior who made a lewd joke towards her was beaten down quite firmly in a duel. If you could even count something that sounded that one-sided a duel.

The eye would remind Jonathan of that when he got a bit older. He already seemed quite determined to specialize in blades, something their combination was quite suited for it had to admit. Best not to damage the relationship with a potential ally (Jonathan much preferred the term 'friend') because he was a stupidly confused teenager.

Not that he was much above it, then. Mr Moody insisted that, to avoid stains for a spurting jugular, Assassination was best done from behind. The entire class, very much including Jonathan, giggled. When the tutor demand to know what was so funny, and further explained of why a good Assassin should  _always_ approach from behind, he only spurred more giggling.

He, like the rest of his age group, had started to listen to the older boys talk about what they knew (or, almost always, what they thought they knew). And he'd reached the age where he would allow it to become quite the distraction. He wouldn't study as late as he used to, for sure, because there were other more interesting things to learn.

For the time being the whole thing was just an annoyance that it had to be removed earlier in the evening. And covered with a washcloth, as if that mattered a bit. Jonathan's grades hadn't slipped, and it wasn't like he'd become any more isolated because of when he turned in, so the eye let him have his time.

The class finally (gratefully) ended. Jonathan packed up his things and decided to practice with his movement abilities in order to get back to the room as fast as possible. He wanted a shower before Edged Weapons class began, and no amount of  _'you're just going to stink within a few minutes of getting there!'_  was going to stop him. He wanted to look his absolute best.

The eye rolled itself as Jonathan attempted to remember which of the provided soaps were used on which parts, and for how long.

He'd definitely need a lot of reminders as he got older.


	9. Chapter 9

Jonathan had been to the tailor every year, sometimes more than once, since he'd been taken in by the guild. The scholarship outfit was meant to be a humiliating reminder of one's place in the world, they figured, but that was no reason it shouldn't fit properly. No matter what position he was in, and with edificeering being such a major part of his studies he'd basically been in every one possible, the tunic and duck pants always hugged him in the most flattering way.

It'd been 9 years since then, and he had no reason to doubt the tailor. He moved into position without prompting, his mind elsewhere.

"You'll have to unclench your muscles, or this coat will hang very strangely," the tailor told him.

"Yes, sir." He did his best to comply.

"The first dance is tough, isn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"But you'll get through it. The first group to take the dark always has it easiest. And the girls from the Quirm College for Young Ladies are just as nervous as you are, don't worry."

Jonathan very much doubted that, but he agreed again. They certainly weren't premiering the Assassin's coming of age uniform, a signal that he was finally and seriously ready to learn to join the ranks. And on that, he would be graded on his dancing skills with the first girls he'd gotten close to in years. Certainly the first since he'd learned why the older students became nervous around them.

At least, he was sure, he'd look fantastic in black.

The conversation had taken off without him. The tailor happily told him all his tips for getting a girl to like you. You asked her questions, and laughed at all her jokes. You kept on your best manners, and be sure to tell her that she was pretty.

"Bet you'll end up with a girlfriend by the end of the dance!"

"Yes, sir." He said. He doubted that, too, but it sounded nice at least.

* * *

The Solstice Ball was a great deal of things for the Guild. It was a graduation celebration for the newest Assassins, as well as a bit of good will towards the society of Ankh-Morpork which simultaneously allowed them to show off the mandatory new display of wealth. That year it was a ridiculously expensive, top-of-the-line clockwork piano that kept the dance floor plenty full without the trouble of hiring a musician.

The instrument was the ultimate talking piece, and helped distract from some of the other purposes of the ball. As the older students sold themselves to potential beneficiaries (and, to be frank, potential future clients), there was also the quiet matter of premiering the newest batch of students to take dark.

Quiet, primarily, due to the propensity for 14 year olds to need to be pried off the wall. It only got worse as the Quirmian girls were led inside, and made it clear that they were no more eager to get with the boys. Through the years, the two university's ballroom tutors had resigned to putting a grade on the whole evening to ensure that at least something was done.

Monsieur le Balourd looked over his checklist. "Mr Teatime-"

"Teh-ah-tim-eh."

"Yes, well, you're up."

Jonathan swallowed, approached the girl just assigned to dance with him, and bowed as he'd been taught. She met his eyes, looked pathetically back at her classmates, but curtsied in return. They fitted themselves into place, and began to waltz when the music picked up.

They took an entire trip around the dance floor, their steps perfectly flowing but their gaze averted and mouths clamped shut. As they came back around, Jonathan caught a look at le Balourd who motioned for him to talk to her.

Jonathan looked pained, but finally asked, "So... What's your name?"

She replied, and then she went and ruined it by asking "Yours is Teatime? That's an interesting name."

He was told to be polite. He was supposed to take an interest in her, and laugh at her jokes wasn't he? That probably included swallowing down a correction. "Yeah, that would be a weird one." He laughed, nervously.

She met his eyes, and immediately looked back down.

"Your dress looks pretty," he offered.

"Thanks." She looked him over from the chest down. "Your coat is... really black."

"Thanks."

"So how much of your grade is this?"

"Our midterm. What about you?"

"25%."

He winced. "That's harsh."

She smiled, a little more willingly. "Yeah, this whole thing is pretty awful. But it could be worse I guess."

"How?"

"Could have to go kiss up to all those nobles."

They headed past a duke who prattled on endlessly about his newly-constructed stables, and the graduate Assassins who were stuck listening to him in visible pain. The young pair sniggered, and pointedly ignored that it would be them in a few years.

Jonathan was more than happy to stay in the moment, in fact. He hadn't realized, until about then, that he'd rather missed just talking with someone. That he'd been more than a bit starved for contact. That he really, really enjoyed that someone his age enjoyed being with him.

He grinned as the song ended, and they exchanged a bow and curtsy as thanks for their dance. He'd really made a friend.

And then she went and ruined it when she headed back to her group to say that he might have been nice, but he was still creepy.

* * *

The party continued in the main hall, but Jonathan had taken to the roof. He buried his nose in the arms he'd rested on his pulled-up knees, and watched the city that never really shut off.

[I thought girls were supposed to be different.]

_People are all basically the same._

[Well, that's great.] He buried his nose a bit deeper. [Maybe I'm just not meant to have friends.]

_A-hem._

[Human friends.]

_What could they possibly have that I don't?_

[A pulse, for one.]

_Vastly overrated._

[No it's not.]

The eye saw the pair of them as a black dot on a multi-layer map. Even with Jonathan's gaze fixed on the palace garden, it easy to watch the red dots swirl around in the grand hall to the disembodied music of the player piano. His non-friend was now with another student. It was irritably easy to hear, as well, when she returned to her friends and giggled that this boy was very cute. The friends, who had all agreed with her that she was lucky to get away from Jonathan, seemed just as happy with their new partners.

Maybe he would have fared better with the patch.

_Probably not. She likes tall guys._

[Thanks for the encouragement.]

_Welcome. Stop focusing on her._

[Yeah... I just want to get to bed.]

_That's not what I mean. You're not alone._

In his mental map, he watched three dots approach him.

Jonathan sighed, harshly, and said aloud, "Can we not, tonight?"

_They'll just follow you if you run some more._

"Already? We just came all the way up to see you." The larger boy smirked to his friends. "Since you ran off ready to cry at getting rejected and all."

"Considering you're up here with me, can't imagine you had better luck."

The bully curled his lip. "Want to try that again?"

The world faded to grey as the vital points on his opponent's bodies started to glow out. The student-issue knife itched in the thigh holster.

_Take care of it now._

"You heard me." Jonathan shook his head and stood up. "I'm going."

The bully reached out and grabbed his wrist. "You think you can just run?"

_You heard him._

In the mental map Jonathan could see the toadies circling around, and his hand hovered over the hilt of his knife. The vital points on their bodies were almost blindingly bright. They pulsed and begged to be stabbed.

_Give him what he asked for._

His pulse pounded in his ears, and the hand on his wrist was white hot. Jonathan undid his knife, and in a blink drove it into the bully.

_You **missed**! How the hell do you miss!?_

[I didn't,] Jonathan thought back.

The bully gagged in pain as blood and urine flowed as the knife was withdrawn.

"Looks like you have to get going, too."

The toadies panicked, and gave Jonathan horrified looks as the helped their leader off to the medical ward. For his part, Jonathan just smiled after them and cleaned his knife.

_Just because it worked out doesn't mean you can ignore me._

[Assassins don't kill other guild members, or they're definitely set to be killed themselves,] Jonathan explained as he headed back to his room. There was more than a bit of bounce in his step. He slipped inside his room. [I should go visit him tomorrow.]

_What? Why?_

[I'd hate to think I had an enemy,] Jonathan answered as if it were obvious.

_If he survives, think you're pretty set on that one._

[We'll see.]

* * *

By the next morning, that Jonathan had sent a fellow student into surgery had been well known. The other two boys had made very sure of it. They also shared plenty of outrage at the administration's belief that the only punishment needed was that surgery. After all, it took a great deal of bumbling to be in the worst condition when you went into a fight 3:1. And it was probably in the trio's best interest that they didn't read more into the fact that the supposed aggressor's only injury was a bruised wrist, wasn't it?

Jonathan certainly could have done without so many witnesses, though. Even though an Assassin was to leave his calling card, it was not good for either his welfare or the guild's security to have people so obviously see his work. People who really should have gone after him, as well.

He assured the administration that he'd take that into consideration for next time. For then, though, he had business.

The bully jumped when Jonathan appeared at his bedside.

"Wh-what do you want?"

Jonathan smiled. "Just wanted to make sure that we're not fighting anymore. I'd hate to think I had an enemy."

His face paled as he stared into the eye that seemed to glow more menacingly. "Y-yeah. We're good."

There was a odd 'I told you so' look as the grin grew. "Wonderful! I'll see you in class, then?"

"Yeah... see you."

And he was alone again. He did his best to stop shaking, and get over the feeling of needing a shower, as he decided he should probably drop out over the break.


	10. Chapter 10

From the floor of the great hall, he could just make out the dotting of signatures carved into the support beams. It was said to be a veritable who's who of alumni, as only the greatest managed to get all the way up there. That was rarely confirmed for the same reason.

With another aimless Hogswatch break upon him, Jonathan had decided that it was only fitting for him to be up there as well. The decision was, of course, the easy part. There were no clear handholds, no stable decorations, and the only thing close to a resting point was a very thin bit of moulding about 2/3 of the way up. Nobody had seemed to even have driven knives into the walls to help them climb, or at least they'd covered it up if they had. But, more importantly, there was a section just for those who'd made it up without resorting to tools.

A challenge that had a challenge on top of it. Perfect.

At least, he'd thought that a few hours back.

Jonathan sat against the wall with his copy of Twurp's Peerage. He was supposed to study on his breaks (like the one his now-icing shoulder demanded right then), but all he seemed to be able to do was to stare down the molding. It wasn't as if he wasn't good at running walls, he'd scaled ones taller and slicker than this. But somehow the moulding stayed just past the point of a good grip.

Absentmindedly, he began to map out the room in his notebook. He couldn't climb the corner, it was too tall to keep that up. Couldn't get enough momentum to run the wall far enough, and would the moulding even hold his weight if he managed?

The eye highlighted nearly invisible signs of repair that had been done over the years.

_The boys that tried it probably had fortunes behind them to fix it up._

[Any chance they were just a lot heavier than me?]

_Doubtful._

[So there's no way it'll hold me?]

_Most likely._

[Would have been nice to bring up before I hurt my shoulder.]

_You tend not to listen when you get your mind set on things._

Jonathan paused. [Fair, but you could have tried at least.]

_So what other ways do you have?_

[Could use the corner.]

_Momentum problem, still. And besides, the real names are too far away from that._

[Get in through the window.]

_You'd have to break it, and you don't have the cash for that repair, either._

Jonathan flipped to another page of sketches. [Could try the flue system. Guess these old buildings are just filled with them. And that and that-] He pointed at the respective, barred outlets. [Are likely connected somewhere.]

_That's a much better idea. But you're thinking too small if you're stopping at the rafters._

[You think?]

_You could get anywhere. Bet you could be in the head office in a few minutes._

He paused. [That would definitely be interesting.]

_Soon as you get that carving out of your system._

[It's against the rules, though,] Jonathan said, dismissively, as he stood up to stretch. _  
_

The eye's colors swirled irritably.  _Seriously?_

He rolled his shoulder to test for pain, then began to work his arms. [No students are allowed in the head office without invitation and/or escort.]

_Is there a bloody rule about just checking out the fireplace?_

Jonathan took his time to slowly bend back until his hands were on the ground. He finally said, [No, I suppose there's not.]

_Then we're agreed?_

[Yes.]

 _Good, fine._ The eye huffed, but settled in.  _Have you decided who you're going to write the inhumation paper about, at least?_

[Who's the least boring, you mean? No.] He straightened back up. [I'm over halfway through, and so far it's just a bunch of nobles with similar guard and grounds setups. Most of them don't even have a little training, half of them aren't even suspected to wear any kind of armor.] He near spat the last part. [Once you get past the guards, it'd be hard not to over-kill them.]

_Aren't there relatives of Death himself in there?_

Jonathan perked up as he bent forward to touch the ground again. [Are there? I didn't get that far, I don't think.]

_Should be plenty interesting once you are._

[Sounds like.] He slid into a split on the floor, and leafed through the book. [There they are. Adopted and an assistant... And a daughter. Probably have decent defenses around them at least.]

_Most likely._

[Definitely more fun,] he agreed as he decided he was plenty loosened up. He crouched beside the low flue and made quick work of undoing the grate. He slipped inside, replaced the grate, and headed up.

The Guild, ever determined to show off its wealth, had been designed to heat as evenly as possible. That meant there were far more paths in the walls than normal. Considering none of the porters were thin or flexible enough to really get inside, and the idea of sending an outside chimney sweep into the inner workings of the Guild would be scandalous, many weren't even barred for risk of clogging.

Jonathan, meanwhile, slid through them smoothly. It really did seem that he could get anywhere, which was a bizarre oversight. Too convenient, really, and he slowed down to examine for poison darts or booby traps. But there weren't any.

It was just a rather glaring oversight, and Jonathan didn't know how he felt about it. Men he held in such high esteem really should be better than that...

But, he supposed, he also needed to learn from their failings. And an Assassin who didn't take advantage of a gift like this was a poor, and soon to be dead, one.

He peeked out of the grate, and grinned when he found the ceiling beams. It was loose, even, so he certainly wasn't the first who's figured out this weakness. Probably some of the greats, who'd been mum about letting anyone who'd fix this issue know about it. In that tradition, he wouldn't either.

Jonathan climbed onto the beam and fitted the grate back into place.

He let his legs dangle for a bit, and sat in awe of how high up he was. The stone patterns on the dance floor were beautiful. How many others had the chance to appreciate it like this...

_Get on with it._

[Yeah, yeah.] He took his knife out of its holster, hooked his knees on the board, and swung down. As he pulled his upper body up, he noted the sheer number of names from his textbooks casually lining the beam.

The Patrician himself had carved his name up here, and Jonathan ran his fingertips over the marks. Naturally, he'd have to put his right under that. He just needed to move over a bit...

His leg slipped, and he started to fall.

Jonathan scrambled for anything to grab. His foot found a hold, and he used it to kick off and pulled himself back up on the beam. He scurried to press back against the wall. It was only when his breathing and heart slowed down that he could appreciate how badly his shoulder hurt again.

He hissed, rubbed it, and thought, [Thanks.]

_Hm?_

[For the lift up. There's nothing there otherwise. It has to be you.]

The colors swirled as the glow died down.  _I_ _can't do it often, so don't rely on it. Just finish and let's go._

With more caution, Jonathan went back down where he wanted, carved his name just below 'Vetinari', and headed back through the grate.

[Let's find that fireplace.]

_Now you're talking._


	11. Chapter 11

His hair had gotten a bit singed from the fireplace, which had taken quite a bit of work to fix. It wasn't enough, but at least he had a hat to cover it up.

Snow continue to fall as he headed for the perpetually open front gate of the guild.

"Off for a visit, then, Mr Teatime?" Mr Stippler asked.

Jonathan paused at the gatehouse. "Uh, yes, sir."

He took his time to put the paper on the counter and pull down the thick student roster. He seemed to take particular satisfaction in how the student squirmed impatiently as he licked his thumb and searched for the correct page.

"It's a cold one tonight. You have enough layers?" He asked.

"Plenty. And I won't be long."

"Don't rush, now," the porter said firmly as he made a note in the correct spot. "It's Hogswatch, after all."

"Yes, sir. I know."

Soon as the book was put away, Jonathan vanished into the night. Far too used to this sort of thing, Mr Stippler casually returned to his paper.

* * *

Assassins did not mourn death, as it made their line of work quite difficult. But a certain amount of sentimentality was not only encouraged but fully expected. After all, how could one properly understand the (extremely lucrative) value of a life if they did not respect it in the first place?

It had been made clear, in Jonathan's case, that he was to visit his parents at least once a year. Around Hogswatch was preferable, since that time of year was already family-centered. Jonathan had pointed out that sometime without so much snow would be more logical, but it hadn't seemed to matter. He agreed he would, once everything else was finished, which earned him a disapproving look but not an order to make it a higher priority.

The carving had been accomplished far earlier than expected, as had his essay. He'd already snuck seconds of the holiday pork pie, and there was nobody around willing to play Stealth Chess with the only student left on campus. All of it several hours before he could reasonably head to his room, even if just to read in bed.

Despite his best efforts, he had officially done everything he had to do that evening. And so, once again, Jonathan sat cross-legged in his snow in front of the gravestones.

If they squinted, the administration could see the graveyard from the Guild. That meant there was a significant chance they could see whether a teenager in full black was in the right spot so, as had become his annual tradition, he had to calculate out the minimum amount of time he'd have to sit there. An hour at least was preferred, but the snow continued to fall and he could probably get away with half of that if he feigned a cold.

Based on the lateness of the inhumation bell, there were twenty five minutes to go.

Jonathan's natural eye may have become useless, but his other senses were plenty sharp. He'd heard all the mutters from the older Assassins as he walked by. It had become the general consensus that he'd killed his parents. How exactly it'd been done was as up for debate, argued as fiercely as would be expected when trying to figure out how a kindergartener would brutally murder two fully-grown adults. There was even a theory he'd done it specifically on a business night so he'd be found quickly and wouldn't need to go very long between meals.

Of course, it'd been a very long time since anyone had bothered to ask  _him_  how things had gone. And they'd certainly never tried to find out his opinion on his parents.

Probably for the best, as he didn't have one really. He was sure the Guild's rumor mill would be disappointed.

From what he remembered, his childhood had mostly been spent playing off to the side while they worked. When a fall had ended up costing him an eye, they found him one from who knew where. It was special, and supposed to help him, they said. And they hadn't been wrong, of course, but he was sure they hadn't anticipated the sort of side effects that came from shoving something like that into a place it didn't want to go.

It'd all been an accident as the result of an accident.

Happenstance.

And a decade later he had no idea what he was supposed to do while he sat in front of two rather plain looking stones that meant less and less to him as the years dragged on.

Were he still the sort to think about those sorts of things, that might have been the hardest part to accept.

If he told anyone that, there would probably have been knowing looks passed. The same people who assumed a recently orphaned child who'd only just learned to read was capable of making major life decisions would see this as callousness as proof of his brutality.

Or maybe they'd just have stared at him blankly. Assassins by and large desperately clung to their family trees, and couldn't understand not wanting to worship any dead ancestor. Most especially one's parents. Maybe there was something wrong with Jonathan, instead.

_Not like they spent much time raising you._

[Yes, but traditionally you're supposed to at least  _care_  about the people that brought you into the world. If nothing else, they didn't let you die when you couldn't even feed yourself.]

_Thanks for having a shag and changing diapers. Let's go before I crack. It's freezing out here._

[Ten more minutes.]

The eye grumbled.

Jonathan went back to looking at the stones very hard.

He supposed he could spend the time wondering what he could have become if they'd gone to a proper glass blower and gotten him a 'real' glass eye. The sort that had a pupil and didn't chatter all day. He probably would have ended up being shipped off to the Armourer's Guild to continue the shop he would have inherited. Or maybe he'd have become a Historian. He did love sifting up information in the library.

Or, just as likely, the guild might have offered them the chance for him to take an education in honor of their contributions to the art of inhumation. And other than being warm on Hogswatch everything would be exactly the same. Maybe nothing could have prevented him from being an isolated nutter that fostered horrible rumors as he headed towards taking the black. So, really, his parents didn't matter much at all. Maybe they even would have held him back. He certainly wouldn't have discovered the fatal flaw in the headmaster's defenses if he had been sitting around a tree with a family.

_There you go._

Jonathan sighed through his nose. [Do you remember why I agreed to the Guild's offer?]

_Wasn't paying much attention to your end._

[Just as well, I guess. I wanted eggs.]

_What...?_

[The whole thing happened before dinner, so I had to go to sleep without any. By the next morning I was starving, and nobody had bothered to give me anything to eat before I was rushed off to the Guild. When I was getting dressed, the Matron promised me anything I wanted if I was good and agreeable in the office. And I'd asked for eggs.] He put his chin in his hand. [Great reason to choose your path in life, right?]

_You found your true calling. Most people never do. Who cares what you traded for it?_

[Shouldn't I care, at least?]

_Don't see why you should bother. Dwelling on it won't change anything._

[I suppose.] He stood up. [Ready to head back?]

_I was ready ages ago._

[I know.] Jonathan headed out of the graveyard. [Did you want to play Stealth Chess tonight?]

_Sounds fine._

[Alright.]

He frowned as something came up on the mental map, and deeper when he identified it.

Nobody moved like an Assassination student, particularly one who'd taken the dark, and nobody understood that like unlicensed thieves. An average citizen might see the coat paired with cat-like agility and predatory nature and give them wide berth, but only the true underbelly of Ankh-Morpork understood that it was in a boy who had no experience or licensure to back that up yet.

There was a lot of pride, to those sorts of people, in taking out an Assassin. There was significantly less in taking out a student, of course, but they usually did have belongings that pawned well. Whether they walked away at the end was up to them, really.

"Nice and easy, lad," the thief said. "Just hand over your valuables and I'll be on my way."

The knife glistened in the moonlight. Very tacky, Jonathan noted, compared to the lamp-blacked knives Assassin's prefered. And dangerous, since it was quite easy to tell where the weapon was at all times. He'd never have seen the proper knife Jonathan carried. But, once he caught sight of Jonathan's eyes, locked on, and  _stared,_ it was clear that it didn't matter. He wasn't looking for a weapon at all.

"Wh-what are you?"

"I'm Jonathan Teatime. What's your name?"

The thief seemed shocked when he was stabbed in the stomach, and like he'd seen a monster when he limped off fast as he could.

Jonathan stood, stone-faced, and watched him disappear into an alley. [Not fatal, right?]

_Long as he finds a decent Igor._

[Then I don't think I'll have enemies anymore.] He wiped off his knife. [Come on, let's go play Stealth Chess.]

_Sounds fun._

* * *

Mr Stippler looked up from his paper, and raised a dull eyebrow at the smear of blood on Jonathan's cheek. "Had a detour, then?"

"Unlicensed thief, sir," Jonathan said, just as plainly. "I'm in for the night."

He pulled the thick book down again. "Happy Hogswatch, then."

"Hm? Yes, same to you." Jonathan headed past without waiting for clearance.

* * *

The rest of the holiday was quiet.

Families ate. Friends drank. Jonathan sat in the common room with intense concentration on the game board while the eye glowed and swirled.

And deep in the dank underbelly of Ankh-Morpork, brand new rumors of a crazy-eyed resident of the Assassin's Guild started to spread.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than I expected. It's honestly taken months of rewrites and reimaginings because I needed to do it properly. This is such a significant and telling moment, relegated to a side-note in an accessory text (I honestly think it's because it makes his worldview much more understandable, and perhaps even justifiable, than 'lol he's just callous because he's nuts' like the book hammered in). I can also use it to make sense of one of the bits of his canon that I agree the least with, namely that he's listed as a member of a day-student house despite being a Guild-adopted orphan that presumably had nowhere else to live.
> 
> Since this fic will need to call back to it before he Runs, and because I was locked into what'd already been put down, this felt like a wall I had to climb before could write much else. I've finally figured out the best way to make this happen... by doing everything I hadn't wanted to. It's going to at least share focus with someone else, it's going to be retrospective, it's in a completely different place than I'd originally imagined it'd go, and it's going to be two chapters (and editing to the next chapter, which will be a lot less drastic than what'd need to be done with my originally-conceived placement). But I'm finally satisfied, so that's all ok.
> 
> Next chapter is coming soon, though maybe not next.

Monsieur le Balourd smiled an awful lot for an Assassin. He was polite and charming to a fault, which made him exceedingly efficient at disarming otherwise hard-to-approach Clients. That attitude also made him an oddly perfect match for some of the most authority-resistant pupils at the Guild. It was obvious, to the Guild Council, that he would be the perfect Headmaster for an incredibly young child who likely needed a light touch.

It stood to reason that the boy might grow up trying to emulate his designated caretaker. Likewise, if that boy were to have a tragically poor grasp on social skills, it was just as reasonable to assume that he'd completely misinterpret his caretaker's expression.

Jonathan had concluded that a smile was always the best choice. No matter what expression he wanted to go for, the corners of his mouth were always upturned. It was unsettling for the rest of the Guild, in particular his peers. Jonathan had always been terribly confused about why.

The trend continued, then, as he stared down expulsion before the panel of Guild Council. le Balourd appeared pleasant and cooperative, but still fully respectful of the gravity of the situation. Jonathan looked bizarrely chipper.

Dr Cruces frowned, and fought off the eye-watering nauseousness that always seemed to surround the student.

Beyond the smile, he hadn't changed out of his flame-tattered coat. He'd also failed to wash off the flecks of blood, nor had he gotten rid of the overwhelming smell of smoke. He looked pathetic, especially next to his immaculately put-together Headmaster. This was all out of proper Assassin protocol, almost scandalously informal, but doubtlessly effective.

It seemed like one of le Balourd's ideas. Dr Cruces would need to talk with him, as well.

"This is a serious offense, Mr Teatime," he finally began.

Jonathan opened his mouth to correct him, but went silent when a firm heel dug into his toe. le Balourd's face stayed as placid as ever.

"Yes, sir," Jonathan chose instead. The pressure was immediately released.

"It's one of the most egregious crimes that an Assassin can commit, in fact. And out of form, as well, which makes it much worse. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The affect was still tragically off. Dr Cruces took more time to sit and look over this display, before he finally waved a hand.

"You're free to speak in your own defense. This will be your only chance to do so, so I'd suggest you make it count."

"Thank you, sir," Jonathan said, in what seemed to be an earnest attempt to be serious. "I suppose I should begin with this morning, then."

* * *

"You're coming, right?"

Jonathan spun around. He couldn't remember the last time another student had come to his door. Certainly they were never happy when they did. That went double when it was one of the housemates who'd spent the last year dredging up the unpleasantness after the dance to try and destroy his reputation.

He edged back towards where he kept his knife. "Coming where?"

"The post-finals bonfire!" the boy said, emphatically. "How don't you know about that? You've been here longer than anyone."

Jonathan shifted a bit. "I don't get invited to things like that," he admitted, mostly to himself. "Why are you asking me?"

"Why not?"

"You hate me. You've told me so... A lot."

The other boy at least had the decency to look sheepish. "We've really been jerks," he said, quickly. "Figured we could all go to the bonfire together and make up. You know, be friends and whatever."

Jonathan, within arm's reach of the knife, chewed it over.

_This is a trap._

[But what if it's not?]

_It's so clearly a trap._

[But-]

_Stop being an idiot. There's no possible way you're leaving this place with friends._

Jonathan's face screwed, furiously, for a moment. He looked unsure of whether he wanted to fight back tears or the urge to punch someone.

The boy shifted uncomfortably in the doorway.

_Look, I didn't-_

"I'll be there," he said, determined and overly-loud.

The boy lit up. "Yeah, great! Eleven, on the westside of Hide Park. Okay?"

Jonathan gave him a wide smile. "OK."

The other boy left, quickly as he was able. As soon as he was gone, Jonathan furiously removed the eye and shoved it back in its case. It spared him the line of swears.

* * *

"You didn't suspect a trap?" one of the Council asked.

He hadn't brought up the eye, or how it'd yelled as much if not more than his own intuition.

"I did," Jonathan admitted, "But..." He chewed his lip for a moment. "I thought... if things went well, maybe it wouldn't be one anymore."

"So you went unarmed?"

"Absolutely not, sir."

* * *

According to the explicitly laid out rules, nobody who wasn't Running was allowed out of their house that night. But, of course, leaving was only against the rules if you were caught. Every student knew that the tutors were too busy either managing their own Run, or helping with someone else's, to bother with routine bed checks.

The Tutors seemed to understand this, as well. With poorly disguised exhaustion, they reiterated the rules, written by people who'd graduated half a century ago, for every one of their underclassmen sessions.

Jonathan generally obeyed that rule, regardless. But, that night, he put on his best coat and took a long pause to admire himself in the mirror. The tailoring hugged his body, and hid any sign of the weaponry he was adorned with. He didn't look scrawny, the way he usually did. He looked his best, like a proper Assassin. Definitely good enough to win people over.

_You can't seriously be doing this._

Unfortunately, that meant he'd had to put the eye back in.

_I didn't mean it, OK? But these guys aren't playing._

He selected one last knife, the one from his parent's shop, and secured it to his belt.

_Listen  to me._

Jonathan, instead, fluffed the pillows on his bed one last time so that it looked like a proper sleeping form. He left, carefully, through the window and headed across the city to the sound of the tirade. That he refused to react only made the words more biting.

Finally, with Hide Park in sight, Jonathan thought, [Shut up, or I'm going to take you out.]

_You wouldn't dare, you ungrateful little-_

He hung off of a particularly tall rooftop. [You'd smash if I dropped you from here.]

The eye seethed, but went quiet as Jonathan headed into the park.

By the time he showed up, fashionably late of course, the bonfire was already roaring. There were only four boys around it, though, so Jonathan had to wonder if he hadn't been fashionably late enough. It was such a delicate balance with those sorts of things, and his teachers always did chide him for being over-eager, so-

* * *

"Awfully light crowd. Only four boys," a Council member quipped. "In my day, half the class would show up to those parties." When his fellows looked over at him, he quickly added, "I heard, anyway. Not that I went to them."

"The regular gathering is on the northside," le Balourd explained. "Farthest away from the Runs where they think Tutors won't find it."

"You and the rest of the faculty knowingly let them flaunt the rules?" another asked, forcefully.

"We don't have the manpower to properly manage the Runs  _and_  keep all the rest from sneaking out." His voice was steady, but had the slightly bitter tinge of someone who'd fought and lost a battle many times over. "Letting students think we don't know what they're doing at least keeps them where they can be checked in on."

The second Council member frowned deeply, but turned back to Jonathan. "Go on about this second bonfire. The evidently  _unauthorized_  one."

"Yes, sir," Jonathan said.

He was far less comfortable, now that his Headmaster's facade had cracked at the worst possible moment. But, with no other options, Jonathan kept his smile in place and pressed on.


	13. Chapter 13

The doors to Doktor von Übersetzer's study were heavy, and the creaky hinges ensured nobody was able to sneak into them. It allowed the Doktor to continue to read his book, secure that the visitor knew that he knew they were there.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Ah, Mr Teatime." von Übersetzer made a big show of closing his book and getting up. "Come in."

Jonathan's smile twitched. The thick, Uberworld accent made the butchery of his last name so much worse. "Thank you, sir. It's actually pronounced-"

The Doktor strode across the room. "You've just had your birthday, haven't you?"

"This past week, sir."

"And how old are you?" He refilled his glass, and paused as he reached for another.

"16."

"Plenty old enough for sherry, then." von Übersetzer said, cheerfully, as he grabbed a second tulip glass and filled it generously. "Drink up."

"I'd rather not, sir," Jonathan said, with a constant eye on the glass. It was always unwise to accept a stray drink from someone inclined to use poisons, and the Doktor had a particular reputation in this case.

"Hm, suit yourself." He took the second glass back over to his easy chair. He motioned to another one with a wide, swinging motion that threatened to (but somehow didn't) spill the full glass in his hand. "Come, sit."

Jonathan did.

"I've been told you're joining B2 house. Fine group of boys."

"Yes, sir, I've been told. But I'm sure it's a mistake."

"Certainly a lot of paperwork for a mistake," he said, and motioned towards the moving documents on a side table.

"This is a house for day students, sir," Jonathan insisted. "I'm a boarder. I have been since I was..."

"Five, yes. And eleven years is well past the amount of time a boarder is allowed in the Guild."

"I'd hoped, with the age I began..."

"The rules weren't designed for that. And you're not the first student who's failed to get an exception for their circumstances. Some were far more extraordinary than yours." His voice was tinged with disapproval, but he hid it behind a sip.

Jonathan's hands knotted in his lap as he forcibly kept his voice steady. "I don't have a home to stay at while I continue classes. The shop and apartment above were rented, and have long since-"

"The Guild is plenty able to find you off-campus housing. They've already secured an apartment on-" He took a moment to look at the paperwork. "Attic Bee Street. It's got plenty to do, for a young man."

Jonathan's smile became more strained. "I've petitioned to be moved to Viper House. I understand that they believe keeping me in private room is too costly for a charity student, but I really only need a bed. Group housing would be plenty fine with me." He added, hopefully, "I'd prefer it, actually."

von Übersetzer gave him an unimpressed look over the rim of his glass. "Your record would say otherwise. And you could never afford the tuition, besides."

Jonathan's eyes went to the floor and stuck there.

"Come, now." The Doktor walked over and put a large hand on his shoulder. "It'll be good for you to be off property. A person would go mad with nothing but Assassins around you all day. We faculty can hardly stand it sometimes."

"Yes, sir."

"Think of it as an opportunity," he continued. "A chance to really find yourself. To meet new people." He offered the sherry again. "A toast, to your coming of age."

[Anything in it?] he thought.

_Kind of a stupid time to poison you now, isn't it? I'd have done it before all that paperwork._

Jonathan reluctantly took the glass, and fought the urge to sniff it before he accepted the toast and took a sip. Far more quickly, he recoiled, his tongue out as if that'd get the flavor off more quickly.

von Übersetzer laughed and patted him on the back. "Plenty more chances to grow a taste for fine liquor, as well!"

He nodded with a shudder. "If you say so, sir."

* * *

The lease for a one-bedroom apartment above a curry shop belonged to one Mr Black who, incidentally, also officially lived at every apartment rented by the Guild. He was a signal for any licensed thieves, or unlicensed but particularly thievish landlords, to keep on their manners and not go snooping about. People who invaded one of his apartments tended not to come back out, after all.

Officially, Jonathan Teatime lived at the Assassin's Guild. Specifically a locker in a changing area in B2 house.

Unofficially he flopped down onto the bed of his new apartment, only a few blocks but seemingly a world away, and stared at the ceiling.

_At least it isn't that different._

[I suppose.]

_Might even be better._

[Maybe. Has a private bathroom. that's pretty great.]

_Be nice not to have everyone staring, right?_

[Yeah,] he paused as he looked from the bedroom into the living area. [Also a stove,] he said with a frown.

_That's not a bad thing, is it?_

[Not if you know how to use one.] His brow pulled down. [Any idea how to cook?]

_I'm literally a piece of glass shoved into your head. How am I supposed to know?_

[Just was hoping one of us knew how to use a frying pan.]

That wasn't fair, technically, since he knew a lot of things to do with a frying pan. It was just that they all revolved around how to kill a man. Not a single hint as how it managed to make food.

The eye had no time for his pout. _You live above a curry shop, and the owner and his wife think you're too skinny. Plus you'll still get meals the the Guild. You're going to eat just fine._

[I know. Just don't like the feeling of having no clue how to do something. Especially now that I'm on my own.]

_It can't be that hard, everyone does it. You just use that stove over there._

[ _How_  do you use the stove?]

The eye hesitated.  _Don't stall, you need to fortify this place._

He obediently, if reluctantly , got up and set to work. He started with a trip wire for the bedroom door. Then there were poisoned needles on the windows, hidden razor wire on the bathroom doorknob, and a dagger for the front door aimed for the head unless the lock was undone in just the right way.

Due to the staff needing full and unencumbered access to student rooms, Jonathan had been barred from putting any defenses up in the Guild. His personal space was left pointedly, and uncomfortably, undefended. But here, within a few hours, his traps training had turned the small apartment into a fortress.

He hadn't noticed how long it'd been until he finished rigging a mild explosive into his lamp. The slightly-off tone of the Inhumation Bell meant that dinner was about to be served, and his stomach growled dutifully.

_It wouldn't take you long to get there. Though it is late to start a trip._

Jonathan fiddled with the wires. [Didn't want to run that far, anyway.]

 _There's plenty of restaurants in town, then. Street even has a few. But who knows about them._ After a long bit of continued fiddling, the eye added,  _You should see the pantry. They filled it up before they left._

[Oh, right, I think so.] He plodded over to the kitchen and looked through the incredibly basic (though still somehow quite expensive, thanks to Guild taste) groceries that had been left in the pantry. He dug out cheese and bread, then gave the stove a sideways glance. He looked between the two as he mapped out how one fitted with the other, and eventually grinned. [Ready to do this?]

_Fine time as any._

Another hour passed. The food was burnt.  _He_ was burnt. But he'd successfully fed himself, so he proudly took the charred sandwich back to his desk.

Now that he was officially a cook, he started a list of things he also needed to master. He'd never washed his own clothes before, for a start. And... you needed soap for that? He also needed to find out where a person would go about finding that sort of soap.

With nobody there to tell him to go to bed, the list quickly moved onto a hypothetical inhumation of his neighbor with a yappy dog and perpetually open window. Then the delivery driver who'd dented his suitcase removing it roughly from the cart. Then the curry shop owners... just in case.

Jonathan was no stranger to falling asleep at his desk, but this was the first time with his glass eye still in place.

By the next morning, when he painfully removed it for cleaning, he found that his pupil would not dilate as it used to as soon as the glass was out. He shrugged it off, since he was clearly just too tired to pay attention properly.

Jonathan put the eye back in, and headed to the kitchen to figure out how to make a fried egg.


	14. Chapter 14

Face still buried in his pillow, Jonathan tapped his hand around the bedside table to stop the alarm clock. He lay still for another few minutes before he could bring himself to crawl out of bed and then to the shower.

He ran his fingers over the selection of bottles, across the knicks made in the tops to select the correct one to start with. And the next, and the next, and the rest of the dozen bottles used inside the shower and then the ones that required the milder water of the sink.

Only once his face was patted dry did he, with practiced fingers, undo the latch on a small box. The glass eye nearly rolled itself into his hand, and then smoothly slid back into place.

His vision shifted from blobs of white and gray to jarringly vivid detail.

_Took you long enough._

The movements to put everything away slowly became more rapid and precise as the magic built up in him. [No sense rushing it.]

* * *

  _He's staring at you._

Mr Mericet suspected something, but the way his leathery face was screwed up said he wasn't quite sure of what yet. Just that it had to do with Jonathan and the recently distributed test. And the tutor's eyes only narrowed more as his hand hesitated between two powders.

Of course, as with any Assassin who managed to live ridiculously long, his instincts were generally right. At least, as far as he read the rules. Jonathan didn't see any sense in not using every resource you had, even if that resource was a talking glass ball.

_You want the white one._

[Are you sure?]

_I'm always sure._

Jonathan took the correct container, which did nothing to lessen Mericet's suspicion. How another boy fidgeted with his sleeve was suddenly far more interesting, though, and Mericet changed his focus.

The powder was carefully weighed and then sifted into the beaker that gently bubbled on the low flame. The solution lurched for a second, then changed color to a pale green. Only then could Jonathan relax, as his matched the shade of more capable students up front.

He would have another relaxed breath when his assignment was finally turned in. Despite the looking over he got, he was allowed to leave.

* * *

 There were a handful of constants, when it came to the Assassin's Guild. The Inhumation Bell would always be fashionably late, only Mr Mericett ever laughed at his jokes, and Miss Band could always find a taller wall. There was a lot of speculation that her Run was scaling the Tower of Art, though of course anyone who survived was barred from confirming that.

Today, she proudly displayed the six story building, smooth aside from a small window at the top, to a chorus of groans.

"Now, now, enough of that," she said. "This is a very standard setup for 16th century noble homes. It should be easy for anyone who wants to take on high value clients." She looked disappointed not to be able to tackle it herself before she headed around to the other side to climb up. "On my whistle, groups of three."

The clay facade was dotted with indentions from climbing spikes and knives over the centuries. So it was certainly possible, and even more certainly someone had died because of it. As with many of Miss Band's classes, the issue here would primarily be one's own endurance.

As Jonathan stretched, he mapped out the best holes to utilize.

The whistle blew, and he ran to the wall to fit his climbing knives into the old holes. Too loose and the knife would fall out, too hard and the blade would dull and quite possibly also fall out. The halted muscle memory had only just started to become natural, and he moved smoothly and carefully up the wall.

When he pulled himself into the window at the top, miss Band glanced at her watch, and then nodded.

"Good to see you taking your time, finally."

He nodded, and took his place against the wall to wait for the others before they were inevitably sent to the ground to try again.

Much as he understood the point, now that he knew the feel he was most definitely going to halve his time.

* * *

 The vital points on Baron Strifenkanen glowed out, bright red and pulsing. Jonathan eyed him, periodically, as he jotted down the answers to his quiz.

The jugular, sliced properly, would cause unconsciousness in 20 seconds and death in 2 minutes.

The femoral artery would take up to 1 minute to render unconsciousness, and 4 minutes for death.

The inferior vena cava took 30 seconds to a minute, and death within 4. Severing it also was likely to damage the liver, which caused extreme pain until the client's brain was too oxygen starved to register it anymore.

That was saved for someone you really, really wanted dead. Which you never would, of course, as Assassins had a detached respect for everything but their fee and didn't bring anything else to an inhumation.

* * *

Nobody liked being the woman. It wasn't just that, for all its reluctant talk of integrating, the Guild was an old boy's club that very much rejected anything considered feminine. The far greater issue was that the girls' steps were much more complex, and all the while the 'man' would use awkward and generally pushy cues to make their partner do them.

Monsour de Balourd considered it to be a fine lesson for the future in why it was important to be a charming and courteous dance partner. The 'men' in the present more preferred it to be revenge for when they had to be 'women'.

Jonathan decided, as he was shoved through a spin turn and into a throwaway oversway, that he was absolutely continuing the trend next time he got to lead. 

* * *

 

_Don't put your hand there._

Jonathan froze, his palm a millimeter away from a poison-tipped needle. [Oh, right.] He took another handhold before he worked at the window lock and pulled himself inside.

There were ten hours to (be fashionably late for) his next class. It took an hour to get everything ready in the morning, and ten minutes to run to the Guild if he moved properly. Assuming an hour for reading for tomorrow's lecture, maybe two, and then falling asleep within a half hour... That would be plenty. Assuming he could get to sleep that fast, which he never could.

Particularly since, while the eye was more than happy to study, it wasn't a fan of calling it quits for the day.

[Come on, stop fighting...]

The eye rolled to keep him from getting a decent grip. _It's freezing in there._

[I'll put you on the mantle, come on.]

_And you could at least get me a box I can move in._

[Then you tap all night.] He finally managed to get his thumb in the right position to pop it out. His apartment once again became blobs of light and shadow. [I'll see you in the morning.]

The eye's colors swirled irritably, he was sure, as he closed up the box and used the color of the firelight to find the mantle. The strain of the day seemed to catch up to him all at once, and he sluggishly followed memory to drag himself into bed to get ready for more of the same tomorrow.


	15. Chapter 15

Summer in Ankh-Morpork was most akin to an armpit; hot, reeking, and always at least slightly moist. Much as work didn't tend to get done in the winter, summer was perhaps even slower. Feeling as if one was breathing rancid soup wasn't conducive to productivity.

Jonathan wiped his brow and leaned into the shade of a chimney. He just needed a minute, maybe two, to regroup and analyze the map the eye needed to update. Classes had just gotten out, the the halls of the Guild were a mess of black dots and names. The single one he needed to find was lost somewhere in the shuffle. The chatter certainly didn't help as he sorted so many people that they blended together, and-

_She's not here._

[She has to be here. The paper said she was.]

_The paper was wrong, she's not. Let's move on._

[Look again.]

When the eye irritably scanned again, and announced the same result, he moved to another part of the Guild. Perhaps the armory?

_No._

He moved to the locker rooms.

_No._

The offices?

_I told you no._

Jonathan huffed for a moment, then scaled the roof towards Wiggy Charlie. The weathervane creaked loudly, as if he were disturbing it. Jonathan ignored it and made one last search of the Guild. Into every room and hiding place, but she wasn't there.

Only then did he reluctantly move onto the city. Nearly at the end of his scan, and about five blocks off, he found something promising. His finger toyed at the release for his knife blade as he checked it once, and then again, and determined this was likely.

[She lied... That's just rude.]

_Told you._

He ignored the eye, and another creak from Wiggy Charlie. He could get there, and within a reasonable time frame, too. But he'd really have to run at this point.

For anyone who noticed him, he would have disappeared from the top of the Assassin's Guild only to to reappear upon the Fool's Guild. Once he adjusted his footing upon a shifting gargoyle, he vanished again.

* * *

The small blacksmith shop was deafeningly loud due to the pedal grinder, and blisteringly hot from the fire that blazed beside it. The woman, his target, sat with her back to the door. She was fully focused on the knife that sparked against the stone.

Jonathan sized up the room as he unsheathed the dagger. Due to the combined heat, the woman was down to a thin undershirt behind the welding apron that reached up the welding mask that protected her throat. Her more formal blouse was draped on a chair, out of reach like most the plentiful weaponry around them. The knife she worked was short enough that, were he to control the situation, it wouldn't be any sort of threat. Likewise the dagger holstered at her side could be made useless. Only after he calculate his approach did he time his footsteps to the sound of grinding. He froze when she sat up to examine her work. She seemed to relish in running her finger along the blade for an excruciating amout of time, but she finally decided it wasn't done and went back to the stone.

With a single, fluid movement, he dove. His arm looped around her mask and pulled her head back. His knife jammed into her back, at the perfect spot for a quick bleed out.

In the new silence of the shop his blade tinked, gently, against the armor plate under her shirt.

Madame les Deux-Epées pulled a pocket watch out and snapped it open. "I could have been halfway back to Quirm by now. A real client likely would have." She closed the watch and tucked it back into her pocket. "Start blackening the throwing knives. And get that coat off or you'll pass out."

He let her go, and shed his coat onto the same chair as her blouse. "The information I was given was wrong," he said, accusingly.

"Always assume it might be," she said, pointing the knife towards him for emphasis. "Beneficiaries always have their own agenda. They're generally liars, and for all the Guild pretense they see us as tools. You don't give a full backstory to a hammer." " She went back to grinding. "Don't get held up just because you were told something should be when it's not. Your research and instincts are better than that, anyway."

He pointedly ignored the 'I told you so' sparking as he pulled on the elbow-length welding gloves. He took a knife from the pile and began to run it over the fire. "Yes ma'am."

It'd seemed almost inevitable when he was unofficially graduated from Edged Weapons. Over the years, it'd gone from difficult to impossible to find a student willing to spar with him. As classes had practically become private lessons anyway, they moved to training in off hours. As they came closer to finals, those lessons changed to mock inhumations so she could spend more time preparing for her Run. Which meant, likewise, Jonathan generally finished his sessions doing the same.

"Think I could finish the Run?" He asked. He placed the first knife off to the side before getting another.

"Nobody Runs until they're 18," she said, and picked out a new dagger to work on. "I was in the room when you were told."

"But do you think I could finish it?"

"I think you'd be killed on principle, and then I'd lose my job for not stopping you."

"What if I swear I'll stay home?" When she gave him a hard look, he held his hand up in the traditional Assassin hand signal. "I swear."

Deux-Epées chewed over both his sincerity and abilities for a long while, and finally said, "I'd give you a 25% chance."

Jonathan's face screwed into a pout. "That's all?"

"That's all. And that's a good spot to be in for 16." She sheathed the dagger. "The next two years are about getting that up to 60% at least."

"That's still really low."

"It's supposed to be." She picked up the knife he'd put off to the side, and pointed to a glistening bare patch. "Being able to notice tiny, seemingly insignificant things like this is a big part of that number." She passed it back. "That's how I managed to graduate from a school that doesn't teach girls."

Jonathan put the knife back over the fire. "So, then how'd they find out?"

"After Danpipe got himself impaled, I was the first choice for the job. They decided a ball my family was throwing would be the perfect time to offer it to me. And there I was, full ball gown cut to about-" She clucked her tongue and motioned over her heavy apron before getting another blade to sharpen. "They even had the gall to ask me 'when I got those' and-"

She noticed where his eyes had stuck, and used a finger to force his chin up to look her in the eye.

"Don't get stupid about women," she said, fiercely. "Men go broke, they lose their reputations, because they're following their dicks around. And the ones who underestimate women on top of that-" She snapped a knife into view. "End up horribly dead. Are we clear?"

"Yes Ma'am..."

"Good." With a twist of her wrist, she spun the knife around to hand him the hilt. "Back to work."

* * *

The night of the Run, the city positively crawled with prospective graduates. Out of courtesy no Guild-backed apartment was directly in the path of a Run, but realistically there were periodic footsteps on near every roof.

Jonathan lay on his bed, forcibly, and scowled at the ceiling. He was fairly sure he'd seen the Madame on an opposite roof checking on him earlier that evening so he was just stuck in his sweltering apartment.

He would have loved to head out, and prove the 45% was ridiculously low. But, alas, no amount of thinking about the rules had found a way around the fact that he'd vowed to stay at home overnight. He'd be far more careful about his words next time.


	16. Chapter 16

Jonathan didn't go to the Guild for Hogswatch. He didn't plan on going to the graveyard, either. He relished in the idea of having the entire holiday to himself, and how horrified the higher ups would be at his absence.

Truth be told, had they noticed at all, it would have been dismissed as a normal teenage reaction to a first taste at independence. There no real disrespect to either institution or ideals meant, and they'd have been right. They would also have assumed he was off having fun with his social group. And, in that, they'd have been wrong.

He'd gone down to the Hogswatch market, which he'd found uncomfortably crowded and had left quickly without buying anything. He ate leftover curry from his landlords, gifted more for him still being too thin than for the holiday. And, with nothing left to do other than what he was determined not to, he turned in early.

Snow fell, gently, outside the window he so rarely left uncovered. It was beautiful, and so thoroughly ruined by the Hogfather display his neighbors had put up.

How many hogs, he wondered, would one have to take out before the sleigh couldn't fly anymore? A quarter seemed like something the others should be strong enough to compensate for, what with the sheer mass of the Hogfather himself. Half seemed like overkill. Maybe a third to ensure he had to ground, but a half to ensure he died doing so, then.

That was questionable, though. A supernatural entity like the Hogfather was presumably immortal, or something like it. A simple crash would be unlikely to be enough to overcome that. At least, he'd hope or else it'd be boring.

One had to assume he was quite a strong figure, with the mandate of controlling such powerful animals and then carrying a massive sack of gifts. And to fit through chimneys and move so quickly across the Disc he was also presumably incredibly evasive. So a direct attack was just as unlikely to be successful.

A being like that really needed to be taken out in a round-about fashion. Find a way to exploit some external weakness, to at least weaken him enough that traditional weapons (or a specially acquired one) could become effective. Particularly since he preferred close-range attacks to distance.

Everyone had a weakness, so he just had to figure out exactly what the Hogfather's was. He was well known to be a large fellow, so using his own momentum might work out. Or exploit his fondness for children, and his mandate to show up in any home where they lived. A stakeout was guaranteed to at least allow for one opportunity.

Maybe one could even go to a more fundamental level? A figure like that was likely some sort of demigod. And, like gods, they drew their powers from belief didn't they? So, to weaken, and perhaps even kill, the Hogfather he just had to ensure that people didn't believe in him. Maybe not even people, per say. Maybe just children.

But how? Children greedy for presents were born every day, and all of them had a fierce belief in anyone who was promised to give them. And children were also stubborn, and wouldn't just believe or not in something because they were told to. How much faith was even necessary to sustain a demigod?

Jonathan stayed stuck on that problem until dawn broke, and the faint smell of hogs faded from Ankh-Morpork.


	17. Chapter 17

"And then!" This was the dozenth addition to the story since the girl and her mother had gotten into line.

Jonathan's eye rolled.

"That's very interesting," her mother said, wearily, though the conversation did not pause to acknowledge her.

The family lived only a few buildings down from him. Thanks to promptly shut off lights, he knew their schedule well enough to know that he'd run out of ink well after she'd been put to bed last night. He could have run out to get it then, when there would have been no lines or conversations at all. Just people who wanted to pay and get back home as quickly as possible, as things should be.

But he'd decided to take it as a sign to stop studying for the night, and settled in with a book on foundational magic instead. For his laziness, he was stuck between an old woman carefully counting out her half-pennies and a child who'd had the most interesting day doing nothing at all.

"And then my tooth fell out!" The girl went on. She proudly pulled it out of her pocket to display for to her mother.

Finally able to put his supplies on the counter to pay, Jonathan paid her no mind.

"Ah, you'd best put that out for the Tooth Fairy!" The mother sang.

That, on the other hand, caught his attention.

The Guild had no time for, and therefore never told him, stories like that. He'd never gone trickle-treating on Soul Cake Tuesday, he'd never hung up a stocking on Hogswatch, and all of his lost teeth had been disposed of unceremoniously. He'd only found out recently, in a book about supernatural entities, that there was a tale about someone sneaking into a child's room and paying for the right to collect teeth. Seemed like an awful breach of security to him at the time. But, just maybe...

A grin spread over his face as he sorted out the how's. It was the sort of smile that made the mother pull her daughter a bit closer, but he'd stopped paying attention to them again.

Soon as he was paid up, he hurried back home fast as he could. The lights would be shut out in an hour, two at the most, which wasn't a lot of time to prepare.

* * *

With such tight curls, there was a very fine line between clean cut and looking ridiculous. By Monday's class, Mr Moody would insist he'd be crossed over into sloppy disrespect for both Guild and client. A cut was necessary that weekend, he noted with a frown, as he contemplated his outfit in the full-length mirror.

For the evening, the far greater issue was that he was such a bright blonde. A hat wouldn't be enough, so he decided on a long coat with a hood. He paired it with leather gloves and a set of heavy climbing boots. Jonathan tugged and adjusted until he looked perfect. Though, of course, if he played everything correctly, nobody would notice at all.

Jonathan accessorized with various bits of weaponry, just in case, and left through his window. He leapt to the neighboring rooftop, crouched down, and peered out from behind a stovepipe.

There was more than a bit of relief that he hadn't taken too long when he found a ladder propped against the windowsill across the street. Flower-print curtains blew gently out of the open window with stickers of ponies on it. His smile grew as a thin figure climbed out.

He ducked back again, and used the eye to watch as the figure stood and waited with increasing impatience. He wasn't much better, honestly, and his heel had begun to bounce long before a cart ambled its way down the road and pulled to a halt in front of the house.

"About time you showed up," the figure hissed. "We're not going to hit everything at this rate."

"Quit complaining and get on with it," the driver growled back.

The figure deposited their full sack into the back of the cart, took an empty one, and headed off with the ladder. The driver snapped the reins, and the horse grunted as it started down the street again.

Jonathan tugged his hood down a bit further and followed after them.

* * *

"Wizards'r pests. Gods..." Mr Graumunchen had chewed over how to say his next sentence without being struck down. "They don't tend to help."

The class paused with him, and watched the ceiling to see if there would be any lightning. When it seemed like they were safe, attention turned back to the dwarf at the front of the lecture hall.

"There are plenty'a maps of the Disc and the city, even wrote a few myself. But there's not'a one of 'em that's complete. Turn to 325." He waited until the flapping of pages stopped.

"Don't get me wrong on this. Teleportation magic is rare and tough, but it exists. You should assume a high-level magic client may have access to it," he explained. "N' there are places in the city where that magic sticks to the walls n' doesn't go away. Ya have some 'nomolies that have been around for centuries. But right now, we're talking portals." He used his pickax to motion to the writing on the chalkboard. "There are the short one-safe-place-to-another kind, and those're the most common. Most'a them were made by Wizards too lazy to walk, 'n so most'a them go between the Unseen University and places you can buy Frog Pills'n whatever else."

"Some are commissioned by clients," he continued. "Those drop you from a safe location straight into a trap, usually made 'pecifically for Assassins. If'ya go all the way through one'a those, boyo, you ain't coming back out.

"The last one's are the rarest, but also the most dangerous. This sort is built by gods, demigods, and other supernatural what-not." He tapped his metal-tipped boot. "These ones... They might drop'ya off in a different spot. They might drop'ya off in the far corners of the Disc. They might drop'ya somewhere... well, somewhere you won't coming back the same from. If ya even get back."

The students stared at him, unsure if he were joking or not. What parts of the dwarf's face which were visible were incredibly serious.

"Now, boyos, let's figure out how to find'em."

* * *

There was no mistaking when you were getting near the Unseen University. The sound of the cobbles changed, the roofs warped slightly, and the air had a particular tang to it due to constantly leaking magic.

That same leak caused the eye to buzz.

_Be quick about it._

[Tell that to the horse,] Jonathan grumbled back.

The carriage hand been on a gruelingly slow wind through the city streets for the last five hours. They'd stopped every half block or so for collection, or to move collecting agents from one location to another. Until finally,  _finally_ , it appeared, they were coming to the end. The cart sagged under the extra weight, the horse looked as if it knew a warm stable and pail of grain was nearby, and the driver seemed to have drained the last of his flask. And now they were coming upon a dead end.

Jonathan hurried on ahead to get the best view.

Portals were most commonly along smooth walls, Mr Graumunchen had explained. Made for quick movement past it, and less places where inconsistencies could happen.

The wall of the University was as good a place as any, and the horse stopped dutifully before it. And then, after a while, it stomped its hoof impatiently.

"Hold on, hold on, you damned old nag," The driver snapped at it as he fumbled around with his coat. "No where did- ah, there."

Jonathan leaned as far down as he dared to try and spot what the driver had gotten. It was much too small to see from the rooftops, whatever it was. Likewise his movements were disguised by a too-large wool coat, and his muttered words too muffled by drink. The object disappeared back into a pocket as narrow, glistening doorway tore open upon the wall.

His mouth hung open a bit, and he leaned forward even further.

The outline of the passage was comprised of glowing, golden sparks that, while brilliant in their own right, didn't seem to alleviate the gloom of the street. Inside was... It was quite dark in there, but up ahead, down a long path... He leaned forward until he was nearly hanging off the roof and just barely saw a glimpse of something white. What was...?

When the reins snapped again, the horse seemed to gain energy it hadn't shown the entire rest of the night. It nearly galloped to get itself, and the cart, through the passage. Jonathan could hear the hoofbeats already starting to slow down on the other side as the whole thing zipped up again.

Aside from tracks in the snow, there was no sign anyone had been there at all.

Jonathan checked the area thoroughly before he hopped down and headed to the wall. He tapped around where the portal had been, but it was just solid rock. The stone was as cool and chipped as anything else along the wall, even. There wasn't a button or a keyhole... Whatever the driver had pulled out of his pocket, that was the only way.

_Did you really think it'd be that easy?_

[Better than feeling like an idiot for not checking, isn't it?] he asked.

The eye gave its equivalent of a shrug as Jonathan flipped down his hood and headed back home.

He was very glad he'd gotten more ink. He had an awful lot of writing to do.


	18. Chapter 18

The shingles beneath him needed replacing. They'd been terrible for some time, actually, and no matter how he lay they jutted just a bit into his back. He could always move to a more comfortable rooftop, of course, but that would cause him to draw attention to himself. Instead, he just fruitlessly readjusted again.

The Run was on, and Guild students moved over the Morpork rooftops like an army of ants. Periodically there was a scream, but more often figures just fell.

Technically, even sitting on his roof as far away from the courses as he lived was against the rules. Undergraduates were allowed to know that the Run existed, just enough to get terrified of it, and nothing else. And it was true that he didn't really have a work around to let him watch but... He also didn't actually care.

People didn't make sense. And, more than that, people wouldn't make sense.

He'd hoped that one day he would wake up with everything snapped into place. But everything already seemed to  _be_  in place, he realized. It was just that his places were so much different from everyone else's that they'd never understand one another. He was rather positive everyone around him had figured it out a long time ago and held that against him. But he'd refused to believe it until it'd been spelled out that night.

It'd been justified with the idea that they were making sure that the graduates would be ready for absolutely everything. But, more to avoid the 17 year olds from doing exactly what he was doing right then, the Guild had taken them on a field trip to the Seamstress district. After that they were encouraged, since they were physically and emotionally exhausted after all, to get to bed. Or, you know, there's plenty of bars open if they wanted to go out and celebrate with their friends.

Jonathan had never been invited out drinking before, and he wasn't surprised nobody offered then. He probably would have turned it down, anyway. He'd wanted to get home as fast as possible, take two baths, and then lay out to the roof.

His classmates had liked it, which was the part that baffled him. He didn't think they were lying. He'd spent too many years listening to older boys talk it up like it was the best experience possible. Clearly, to someone, it must have been enjoyable.

But it'd been awkward and uncomfortable, and the woman he'd been given to was in no mood to be patient with him. He'd felt like a stupid, terrified child. If he never had to experience it again, it'd be much too soon.

To his peers, though... Even as they left the district, they were eager to get back. They'd grow into men who'd spend their entire fortunes on women. And probably drink, as well, because they went hand in hand.

And he'd just be off to the side, never understanding the fascination.

There was a scream of pain, the sort that lingered in agony until it finally petered out. Probably a poison, then. Come to think of it, he'd seen Lady T'Malia wander around that area roughly a week ago So change 'probably' to 'almost certainly'.

There was a "gluck" noise, which was a knife. He wondered if it was one of the ones he'd blackened. The Madam had been very insistent about not telling him where she was assigned though, so...

"Good morning, sir," Jonathan said without turning his head.

Monsieur le Balourd came onto the same roof, with a tight smile that reminded a student that he was an authority figure. "You're not supposed to be on the roof, Jonathan. I know it was covered in-"

"Needed some fresh air, sir." He settled in a bit more, to make a point that he wouldn't move. "Can't discern anything from this distance, anyway."

The tutor's smile became more sympathetic. "Bad trip tonight, then?"

Jonathan sunk even deeper against the shingles.

"The one they'd forced me on back in the day wasn't much better, I'm afraid," he said, with an almost apologetic shake of the head. "It's really an awful thing to mandate something like that. Some men just get nothing out of women. And there's no shame in it."

He paused a long while, then got up to his elbows and asked quizzically, "There's not?"

Jonathan couldn't remember the last time he'd been told that he was anything approaching normal.

"None at all!" Le Balourd practically sang. "I accepted that at your age, and it made my time in the Guild far better from that point on." Of course, he also hadn't been the social paraiah Jonathan was. And he'd never gotten into anywhere near the amount of trouble... but one thing at a time. "We can talk more tomorrow if you need to. But right now, get back inside before I have to report this."

He stood up, and nodded to the tutor. "Thank you."

The hood was pulled down a bit more to hide his white-blond hair. "Do try to get some sleep, though, alright?"

"Think I'm going to take another bath, honestly."

le Balourd patted him on the shoulder before he headed back into the night.

As Jonathan slipped back inside his window, the eye began,  _You know he thinks you're-_

[I got that.]

_And?_

[And I'm taking a bath. Alone.]

The eye rolled, but let itself be removed.

Jonathan drew and then sunk into the bath. He laid his head back and, with a wash cloth over his eyes, listened to the periodic footsteps overhead.

He tried to clear his mind, but it quickly became apparent that wouldn't work. No, what he really needed something, anything, else to keep him occupied. Something big, and consuming and...

Mock inhumations were good for that. That'd be perfect. If it was complicated enough, his mind would be stuck all night... And, for a project like this... he needed the biggest one ever.

The most difficult, the most seemingly impossible...

His eyes snapped open. A moment later, he scrambled out of the water and got the eye re-inserted as fast as he could.

It took a moment for the eye to start up, as if it'd gone away.  _What happened to the bath?_

[Forget it,] Jonathan insisted. He darted over to his desk to search through his library books. [We still have the one on personifications, don't we?]

_For another day or so... What are you looking for?_

[I'm going to inhume Death!] Jonathan giggled, proudly. [Just have to figure out a good starting point...]

_How about getting some pants on?_

He paused and glanced down. [Fair enough. But after that, I'm inhuming Death.]

The eye seemed to grin back.  _Can't wait._


	19. Chapter 19

Jonathan had seen the Pandeys packing unsold dal into the ice box the night before. That always meant stuffed paratha the next day. And sure enough there was his plate, untouched on the counter and surrounded by chutney.

They wanted him to sit, eat, and even more importantly talk, in the same manner he assumed Grandparents were like based on the way the other boys complained. If he was to get his meal and leave for the Guild without taking the time, it would take some sizing of the situation. That Shriman Pandey was tied up with the rent collector certainly helped, but where was...?

"Will you look at this!"

He swore the Shrimati Pandey was some sort of supernatural being. She always came out of nowhere, and suddenly had his face cupped in her hands to display to the rent collector.

"Two years he's been living upstairs! No matter what I do, he's still skin and bones!"

"Comes with having to check food for poison all the time, I think. That Guild either muscles them up or slims them down," the collector said with a shrug as he returned to counting the rent money. "He looks like two-thirds of the off-property boys I see."

"It's dreadful," She said. After she forcibly sat Jonathan down in front of his plate, she went to tend the stove. "They make them keep such strange sleeping hours then work them until they can't keep pounds on, and-" Her face firmed, irritably, as she turned back to find him folding pieces to run off with. "Or is it that you stay up so late with your books that you can never to wake up in time to sit and eat with everyone?"

"Might be, ma'am. Thank you."

To the exasperated refrain that translated into 'kids these days...', he hurried out of the kitchen and past the lunch patrons. He used the rent collector's buggy, despite the horse's protests, to get back up to the rooftops as he headed off to class.

* * *

The students sat, rigidly, desperate to be both invisible and seen as obedient.

Alice Band was exactly as dangerous as the other tutors, which was most advisably taken to mean that she could (and would) kill rather effortlessly. She was intimidatingly athletic, even by the Guild's physical education standards, and was rumored to carry explosives in her pocket in the same casual way other people carried a pocket knife. But it was in the classroom for her traps and locks class, where she was in a corset and floor-length dress, that her reputation truly preceded her. She was one of the few tutors truly feared on a strictly academic level.

The entire class' mouths went dry as she tapped a gloved finger on the graded tests.

She pursed her lips for a long while, as she sorted out her thoughts, and eventually began.

"Every tutor in this school likes to brag about how they teach the most vital course. The majority of them are liars." She paused for emphasis. "It doesn't matter how well you blend into a party, how many languages you speak, or how perfectly mixed your poison is. If you can't get in or out of the building, you'll fail or you'll die." Her eyes burned as her gaze swept over the students again. "My class is the difference between a completed contract and returning to the Guild a failure. A healthy commission or a crippling injury. Life or death. I _guarantee_ that.

"And yet these tests are death warrants," she snapped. "All of you are set to Run in the spring, and yet you can't even be bothered to understand basic concepts of defenses. Forget the client, you won't get near them. And you certainly won't live long enough to be paid for the service. I expect better performance next time."

She stood and picked up the pile. "And, frankly, I'd suggest hiring a locksmith if there are traps around. Too many of you don't stand a chance of handling both."

Names were called to come collect the tests, and when it was his turn Jonathan went up as if he were headed to the gallows. Miss Band handed it over without comment and continued down the list. It was only once he was back at his desk his he dare to peek at the grade.

He'd passed.

Not by his normal standards of quality, or even close to it, but he'd managed to escape her scenario. That deserved a relieved breath.

Though... keeping a locksmith or four in mind probably wasn't a bad idea.

* * *

Jonathan's best coat was not designed for violin. Its sleeves didn't have the give they needed, and his bow was stilted until his music could be technically proficient and nothing more. He noticed, and of course Kompt de Yoyo had noticed, but there was nothing either of them could do. So he just continued on.

The Musician's Guild was going to be changing soon, the tutor had explained to the students he'd deemed fit for axillary rolls. The Musicians would be changing their merit-based system to fee-based due to money troubles. It was ironic for an Assassin to find that disappointing, but there was always an exception made for art.

The judging committee from the Musician's Guild sat in the music room for the last time. They made notes on Jonathan's playing, around glances at the weapons that lined the walls and the rapier at the Kompt's side. They feared Assassins, as most people properly did. But they were there, then, because that fear had never stopped them from being pests.

If an axillary tried to play without a license, they wouldn't smash an instrument as they might for a normal musician. But, somehow, the biggest gossip at the party would get the idea that the flutist looked rather Assassin-ish and there would be no way to perform their role anymore.

But, play along with their rules and fees, and the Musician's Guild had an incredible talent for greasing palms. They could get an axillary into any event they needed to, talk up a long and made-up work history that would calm even the most skeptical guests, and if need be provide accompaniment who wouldn't ask any questions. As long as they did exactly what they were meant to, the Kompt insisted, they deserved to be respected and paid.

Jonathan supposed they were in agreement about that. And with him absolutely needing a new coat to play in.

* * *

"There's always a source for wealth," Mr Schotter stated.

Unlike Ms Band, who seemed to transform to properly fit her two widely varied classes, Mr Schotter became horribly uncomfortable outside of his hiding course. He spent the mathematics class with his shoulders hunched, as if he would be allowed to disappear behind his desk with enough effort.

"Even families with ancient fortunes are maintaining them, somehow. Keep a mind on it, as it will determine client movements and knowledge bases." He looked over the students. "What are your most likely sources?"

A slew of hands went up.

"Teatime, you were first."

"Teh-ah-tim-eh," he said, automatically. "Real estate and land ownership is the highest likelihood."

"Good. Note that it's also a hands-off income source, which can be relegated to middlemen. Be sure to know about collecting and managing firms and employees. They can lead you back to their source, if you're diligent. Now, when you want to follow a money trail..."

Jonathan's hand froze over his notebook.

He realized, suddenly, that the rent collector's horse from that morning hadn't been unfamiliar to him. He never really paid much attention to horses, with the way he preferred to stick to rooftops, but for some reason he absolutely remembered those two white socks and the wide blaze on its face...

It couldn't have been, but at the same time it had to be.

After all, wealth always had a source.

* * *

The lights in the curry shop were still on, as Jonathan hadhoped they would be. He made sure his traps paper was tucked, deeply, in his bag before he slipped inside the shop. "I'm back."

Shrimati Pandey looked up from her sweeping. "You're early."

"Thought about what you said. I should be eating with everyone," he said, as he plopped his messenger bag down next to the stool.

"Mhm," she said, as she put the broom to the side and dished out some leftovers. "And what else?"

"There doesn't have to be something else," he insisted as he readied a spoonful.

"You're home two hours earlier than normal, and you didn't run straight back to your apartment. What else."

"I need information about the landlord. And the rent collector."

She gave him the crippling sort of look she'd made into an artform. "Are you looking to get into trouble?"

"It's just for a project," he insisted. That it was an increasingly elaborate side-project of his own didn't matter.

Her look somehow became more intense until he was forced to shrink down.

"And I'll do dishes," he offered.

She eyed him a bit more, but took back up her broom. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."


End file.
